


The Patchwork Quilt Affair

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e04 The Foxes and Hounds Affair, Gen, New York City, The Deadly Games Affair, The Iowa Scuba Affair, The Monster Wheel Affair, The Pieces of Fate Affair, The Super-Colossal Affair, The Yukon Affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Action and Adventure await as we join Napoleon & Illya on an unique assignment that takes them around the United States reuniting them with acquaintances from both the series and books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You want us to collect what?

Early July 1971:

Sweltering heat engulfed him as Napoleon Solo disembarked and crossed the blistering tarmac along with the other passengers. New York City. Home – as much as any spy could have – and with it came a sense of relief. He had been gone far too long for his liking.

Wearily, he picked up his luggage as it swung by on the conveyer belt, his sharp eyes searching for, yet not finding, a familiar face to greet him. Hiding his disappointment, he strode into the bright sunlight as a stranger charged through the doorway and barreled into him. Irritation set in with the lack of apology, but he brightened as he noted a familiar cab pulling up to the curb. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat running down the back of his neck. After the pleasant weather in Europe, the oppressive heat made him wonder why he had been in such a hurry to get back.

Out came, not the familiar handkerchief, but a thick scrap of cloth. One eyebrow rose as he looked at it in puzzlement and he returned it to his pocket for later study. For now, he just wanted to enter the cab whose door stood open invitingly, and extend a warm smile to the blond cab driver.

“Thanks for picking me up. I wasn’t sure you would.” The words were heartfelt.

“It’s the least I can do,” the cab driver responded with a slight foreign accent to his words. As he turned back to the wheel, a tiny smile danced across his somber face. “How was your trip?” he asked, looking at the backseat through the rearview mirror. His sharp eyes assessed his partner, who, even in this heat, was still impeccably attired, noting a pinched look around Napoleon's eyes. Could it be that thirty days of squiring a royal princess around Europe had proven too much? Illya mused.

“Tiring. It’s good to be back in New York,” Napoleon said as he slumped back against the seat cushions, his thoughts apparently somewhere other than their destination.

It wasn’t until they had entered the agents’ secret entrance and settled into their accustomed chairs in Alexander Waverly’s office that Napoleon remembered the mysterious scrap of cloth. Passing it over to his partner, he asked, “What do you make of this?”

“What is it?” Illya Kuryakin pulled out his glasses, slipping them on to examine the scrap.

“Hell if I know. I found it in my pocket.”

“Who put it there?” Illya turned the cloth over, finding that it was actually two pieces of cloth with batting in the middle, bound together with stitches so small they could barely be seen.

Napoleon’s brow furrowed as he thought back. He was certain that it was not there when he had disembarked the plane. He distinctly remembered placing the lovely stewardess’ phone number in that particular pocket and would have noticed. There was only one way it could have happened. “I might have bumped into someone.”

“Hardly professional of you.” The corner of Illya’s mouth quirked.

Napoleon scowled and his eyes darkened. “I had other things on my mind.”

Napoleon’s response struck Illya as unusual and his smile turned into a frown. Before Illya could inquire further, Mr. Waverly swept into the room.

“Ah, I see you have it,” Mr. Waverly said as he made his way around the table. As he gained his seat, one hand was already reaching for his pipe, the other for the switch on the intercom. “Miss…umm…Rogers, will you come here please?”

The door swished open and Lisa Rogers paused in the doorway, clearly awaiting instructions. “Sir?”

Waverly finished lighting his pipe, then waved it towards his Russian agent. “Would you please see to it that the cloth…err… Mr. Kuryakin is holding gets to Section Eight?”

“Yes, sir,” Lisa responded crisply as she obediently plucked the cloth from Illya’s fingers.

Once she was gone, Mr. Waverly leaned back in his chair, enjoying his pipe. “Now about your last mission, Mr. Solo.” He paused to study his number one agent. “Prince Phachete was very pleased with your performance, though as I understand it, his daughter was not.”

Illya straightened imperceptibly in his seat and a blond brow rose questioningly. As a rule, complaints against Napoleon were generally the other way around. Napoleon was studiously ignoring him, his eyes cast upon his hands. Napoleon eventually made eye contact with his partner, a slight shake of his dark head pleading ‘not now’. Thoroughly puzzled, Illya merely nodded, acknowledging receipt of the message. The two had learned long ago how to hold entire conversations without saying a word.

“The mission can be classified a success, nonetheless,” Alexander Waverly continued, not entirely unaware of the by-play between his two agents and choosing to ignore it. “I would like your written report on my desk by the end of the day.”

Napoleon heaved an internal sigh of relief at not having to answer any further questions. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, gentlemen,” Waverly sorted through various folders, before he pulled one forward, then continued, “as to your next assignment…” only to be interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

Napoleon quickly hid his disappointment. Normally, Waverly allowed agents at least a couple of days respite before sending them off on another assignment. A tired spy was a dead spy. Illya, on the other hand, merely looked thoughtful.

Each agent pondered the significance of this quick reassignment as their chief conversed quietly on the phone.

The moment the he hung up, Waverly commanded, “Come with me, gentlemen.”

The two men followed in Waverly’s wake as he led them to the elevator and down to the vast area that was designated Research and Development. Waiting to greet them was the head of R & D, Mr. Simon Simpson.

“Mr. Waverly, so good of you to come. It’s ready, just as you asked.” Simpson beamed exuberantly as he led them to an area where a large silver vehicle resided.

“What is it?” Napoleon asked. Tilting his head, he studied the vehicle critically.

“It looks like a giant bullet,” Illya commented as he slowly circled the rounded silver object.

“Indeed, indeed,” Simpson responded proudly, his chest practically bursting with pride. “This is hopefully the first in a class of recreational vehicles that we plan to call the Bullet Line. We’ve collaborated with a new company ‘Coachmen Recreational Vehicles’ on this project. They, of course, have agreed not to use our particular design,” he assured them smugly as he pointed out a floor plan tacked to a nearby wall.

“Recreational vehicle?” Keeping his hands in his pockets, Napoleon tilted his head as he studied the gray body. He knew that Waverly was constantly on them about overspending the budget…but this? To the best of his recollection most RV’s required being pulled by a car or truck; some of them had a bulge that rested over the towing vehicle. Sleeping quarters, Napoleon had always thought. The twenty-two feet of gray metal, edges rounded rather than square was unique. “It looks more like a tube.”

“Well, yes. I suppose it does.” Simpson sounded slightly miffed. He obviously was not prepared for any criticism of his new toy. “But wait until you see the inside,” he offered brightly as he opened the side door and eagerly led the way inside.

Napoleon’s estimate of Simpson rose as he entered the plush interior. From the doorway, he could see a leather sofa, and off to the left, a kitchen area. Up front in the driver’s section were two captain’s chairs, the setup similar but appearing far more comfortable to that of the submarine he and Illya had once used for the foray on Dauringa Island. It, too, had been a product of Simpson’s fertile imagination. The dashboard, however, caught Napoleon's attention. It was sleek with a great number of buttons and dials.

“As you can see, the interior design is far ahead of its time. We’ve estimated that it will be at least twenty or more years before the public gets to see something similar. The dashboard itself is top notch. And before you say it,” Simpson turned to Illya who was studying the dash with interest. “no, we will not put in a new meter indicating kilometers per hour.”

Illya exchanged a sheepish grin with his partner. The last time he had made that request Simpson had merely said that it only cost three cents more for a new meter face.

“Very futuristic. I take it you’re responsible for all this?” Napoleon asked, diverting attention away from Illya.

“My, no. Wish I could take credit. We were lucky enough to snag a young fellow from…” Simpson paused distractedly when Mr. Waverly made a disapproving noise. “Ah, well, let’s just say his designs are far ahead of anything I’ve ever seen.” Simpson reached over and slid the glove compartment door aside. Inside was a state-of-the-art communication system. The two agents were impressed; according to Simpson the range was considerably more than anything they had previously experienced. “The reason is that the outside is one huge antenna.”

They left that area to pass through a completely fitted kitchen area. There were two bench seats, one on each side of the table. A small refrigerator, along with an equally compact stove and oven completed the area. Passing through a narrow hallway with a bath on one side and closet space on the other, Napoleon noticed that several of his suits, as well as Illya’s, were already hung there.

“This rig has a ten gallon water capacity, is fully air conditioned, and gets twenty miles to the gallon of gas,” Simpson said proudly as he led the way to the sleeping area past a bath which contained a small shower, commode, and sink. “You can even shower while in motion.”

Once they made it to the back of the RV, Napoleon frowned. “There’s only a double bed here.”

“Napoleon, they appear to have had you in mind when they designed this room,” Illya deadpanned to his partner, indicating the mirrored headboard over the bed. He quickly hid his smile at the disgusted expression on Napoleon’s face. “Besides, we have shared worse sleeping quarters before.”

“The table and chairs in the kitchen area fold to make another bed. You could sleep four in a pinch,” Simpson spoke in the hope that it would mollify the senior agent. “But just look here.” He pushed a button and the headboard slid up, revealing a complete array of weapons.

Illya brightened considerably as he moved over to check out the various knives, guns, and other instruments of destruction.

“And there’s this.” Simpson raised the bottom section of the double bed to reveal an additional cache of armaments that would make any assassin proud.

“Are we really going to need all this firepower?” Napoleon muttered to his partner after having inspected every nook and cranny of the RV and received a shrug in response.

Upon returning to Waverly’s office, they were informed that there were at least twenty other pieces of quilt scattered around the country awaiting collection. The decision had been made for his two top agents to use the new R & D developed RV to do it. Neither agent looked enthused, so Waverly said pointedly, “Look at it as an enforced vacation.” Waving them off, he offered one last piece of advice. “Oh…and don’t call us. We’ll call you.”


	2. Boston, Here We Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First step of their journey takes them to Boston, where they run into Angelique and Waverly's brother-in-law, Mr. Hemingway.

After spending a few days familiarizing themselves with the vehicle, they set out for the first stop on their destination. The two agents pulled into the parking area of the Boston Convention & Exhibition Center. 

“I still cannot believe the old man ordered this,” Napoleon complained as he exited the RV. He had driven many different vehicles in his checkered career, but this one, quickly dubbed ‘the Monster’, was big, bulky, and hard to maneuver. In some ways, it drove like a tank. 

“You weren’t there for the budget meeting,” Illya explained as he followed after his partner. “I am beginning to think this is Waverly’s idea for curtailing hotel bills.”

“Hello, boys.” The sultry voice caught both agents by surprise. They turned as one to find Angelique, a cigarette held daintily between two fingers as she leaned seductively against her silver Porsche. “A little gauche even for you, darling,” she said, brushing her blonde hair out of her eyes as she inspected the outside of their new home-away-from-home.

Illya turned to Napoleon a hint of exasperation in his eyes.

Napoleon ignored him to smile charmingly at the Thrush agent. “Angelique, sweets, what brings you here?”

“Boston? Why, darling, I live here.” She moved up against Napoleon, earning an eye roll from Illya. “Aren’t you going to show me around?”

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I shall make myself scarce,” Illya muttered and proceeded to just that.

“You needn’t leave on my account, darling,” Angelique called after him in a sickening sweet tone as she headed for the RV’s door. “Where is the dear boy off to?” she asked with studied casualness, as she climbed the stairs to enter the RV, letting her skirt ride up her shapely thigh.

“We’re on vacation. Illya’s never had a chance to just see our great, beautiful country,” Napoleon said with a smile as he followed the vixen around. 

“Using one of U.N.C.L.E.’s latest play-toys?” She pursed her lips as she checked out the refrigerator and oven.

“What makes you think this is U.N.C.L.E.’s? We could have rented it.” 

Angelique flashed a pouting look that proclaimed her disbelief. She slithered closer and ran a long red nail down Napoleon’s face, starting with his nose, over his lips, down his chin. Her hand trailed down his shirtfront and gripping him by the tie she led the willing agent down the hall toward the bedroom.

***

Illya set out briskly, not wishing to witness Angelique’s seduction of Napoleon. He would never understand what his partner saw in her. He slowed down as he got further away and into the shopping district. The Thrush vixen always managed to make his skin crawl but he really shouldn’t let the witch get to him like she had. He mulled over the news that Angelique had a residence in Boston. In retrospect, he wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t Salem not that far away? 

So much for this supposedly secret assignment. Angelique’s presence meant that this mission wasn’t as secret as Mr. Waverly had hoped. Napoleon would keep Angelique busy; how Illya did not want to know, while he continued to the meet. 

Illya shook himself mentally, getting his mind off of any further speculations. They didn’t have time for that if they were to make the rendezvous that Waverly had arranged within the time limit. 

It would have been nice if this was something other than business. Just once, he would like to take in the ambience. Instinct made him decide to stop in at a few of the shops along the way just in case Angelique was not alone. Stopping, he looked at the sign over the door that proclaimed Magnum Bookstore Open 9 – 5 Monday thru Saturday, Closed Sundays. Opening the glass door, he decided that a little reading material would not be remiss on this assignment and began browsing. The Kingston Trio song, Charlie on the MTA, was playing softly on the speakers. The clerk smiled at him and called out that they had just gotten in a shipment of wicked new titles and pointed to a display by the door.

Illya had just started perusing the titles when the bell over the door tinkled and a young woman entered the store. He wouldn’t have given her a second glance but for her attire. She wore a heavy trench coat and hadn’t removed the dark glasses perched on her nose even once she was inside. Oddly enough, her garments reminded Illya of another young woman, Mandy Stevenson, a bored translator who worked for U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon had taken pity on her and sent her out on what they had later dubbed the Never-Never Affair. She, too, had thought she could escape notice by wearing a trench coat and dark glasses. Pretending to be engrossed in the book in his hand, Illya took a circular route to the counter and paid for it, careful to not show any interest in the young woman on his way out of the store.

Putting on his own pair of dark glasses, he then strolled down the sidewalk, pausing at various shops to look in the windows. Yes, he was definitely being followed. The young woman, a strawberry blonde with freckles, lots of freckles, was definitely following him. To throw her off, he went into a couple more shops. At the end of the block, he crossed over and stopped to inspect the sign proclaiming the shop to be Hemingway Antiques. 

She was still on the other side of the street as he proceeded to pass the antique store, then turned back to enter.

Mr. Waverly’s brother-in-law looked precisely the same as he had the last time Illya had made his acquaintance. Mr. Hemingway looked up upon Illya’s entry and smiled. Finishing with the customer he was waiting on, he turned to greet the Russian agent. “Mr. Kuryakin, how wonderful it is to see you again. Is your partner with you?” 

“Mr. Solo was unavoidably detained,” Illya informed him. He heard the bell over the door chime and instinctively knew it was his follower, so he continued politely, “Is it permissible to look around?”

Hemingway seemed startled as if that wasn’t what he expected to hear, until he noticed the young lady who seemed to have followed the agent into his store. Trusting the Russian’s instincts, he responded, “Of course, sir. If you find anything of interest, just let me know.” Leaving Illya to his own devices, Hemingway greeted his newest customer. She refused his offer of help and then spent a moment or two looking around before leaving. 

Once she was gone, Hemingway approached him. “You think she was following you?”

Illya shrugged. “It could be my imagination; however, in my experience, it never hurts to be cautious.”

Mr. Hemingway nodded his understanding. “I believe this is what you have come for,” he said, holding out a small oil painting of a lighthouse. 

Illya looked at it, puzzled. As far as he could tell there was nothing remotely remarkable about it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his mysterious follower looking through the window, and by the time he had turned back Mr. Hemingway had the painting wrapped and the sale rung up. “That will be fifty dollars.”

He was left with no choice but to pay out the money and accept the painting. He had not gone more than five steps toward the door when Mr. Hemingway called out. “Sir, I believe you dropped this.” He turned back to find Mr. Hemingway holding out a wallet. The only thing was – it wasn’t his. “How silly of me,” Illya said as he took it and put it away next to his own.

Hemingway watched as the young Russian agent left his shop. Once Illya was out of sight, he excused himself to retire into a back room. He sat in his special chair and picked up the phone on the side table. “Alex… He just left… Problems? No, nothing that I could see.” Hemingway hung up, a satisfied smile on his face.

 

***

Illya returned to the RV to find Napoleon buttoning his cuffs and adjusting his tie, a smug smile plastered across his face. 

“You’re still alive,” Illya remarked dryly.

“You’re just jealous.” Angelique had done much to dispel the strange mood Napoleon had found himself falling into of late.

The edge of Illya’s mouth twitched slightly.

“What’s that?” Napoleon changed the subject by pointing to the package under Illya’s arm.

“This, my dear partner, is a badly painted oil of a lighthouse.” Illya tossed the package to his partner and started for the back of the RV. “I will check to see if Angelique left any unpleasant surprises.”

Napoleon took the package and unwrapped it, his eyebrows creeping upward as he confirmed his partner’s judgment. He turned it over, undid the back and came up empty. He canted his head to one side. “Well I can’t disagree with you there. You’re sure this is it?” he called out.

The flushing of the toilet was his answer and Illya emerged zipping up his slacks. He withdrew the wallet Hemingway had handed over to him and tossed it to Napoleon. Inside was a piece of cloth – another piece of the puzzle.

Shaking his head, Napoleon’s smile quickly turned to a frown as he studied the quilt piece. The design on it made no sense to him. He went over to the stove and lifted the cover. Underneath was a keypad. Flexing his fingers, Napoleon punched in the code and the stove bottom popped up, revealing an ingenious safe. With satisfaction Napoleon set the cloth safely inside. “Did you have any problems?’

Illya considered. He hadn’t been followed back to the RV, which he would have expected once he’d obtained his objective, so maybe it was his imagination. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Suddenly all the lights in the RV began blinking on and off. 

“What the—” Napoleon’s head turned frantically every which way as he looked around the RV, unsure of what was happening.

Illya, who knew what the signal meant, sat in the passenger seat and pressed one of the buttons set into the dashboard. The glove compartment slid upward revealing sophisticated communications equipment. “You should have stayed for the complete briefing, the one that detailed all of the extras on the motorhome.” He twirled a few dials and picked up the microphone. “Kuryakin here.”

“Status.” Waverly’s voice sounded through the radio speakers.

“Operation Boston accomplished.”


	3. Mainsville Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance to revisit with Jacqueline Midcult and meet out villians Judith Merle and her assistant Maude.

“The next leg of your journey is Mainsville, Ohio. You will meet your contact in Buck’s Bookstore. Ask for Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities. Your contact will respond ‘I regret I do not have a copy at the moment.’ Whereupon you will point out the book in the store window and say, ‘I think Madame Defarge is simply gruesome, don’t you?’ Acknowledge.”

“Buck’s Bookstore, Tale of Two Cities, Madame Defarge.”

“Excellent. Waverly out.”

“Well, well, well,” Napoleon said from his position behind Illya. His brow furrowed. The manner in which their orders had been given seemed a little terse, even for Waverly. One tiny slip of information caught his attention. “Mainsville, Mainsville… Sounds familiar.”

“Yes, it does,” Illya said thoughtfully even as he slid the dashboard cover down and moved into the driver’s seat. He flipped down the radio to expose a keyboard, hit a few buttons and a ticker tape printed out. “Hmmm, according to this, Mainsville is roughly 554 miles and seven hours to reach.” 

Napoleon snatched the printout out of Illya’s hand. “That’s ridiculous. It takes at least an hour to get through most cities. Then there are stops for gas. If, however, we drive in shifts and make minimal stops, it should take us closer to fourteen hours not seven.” 

“Ah, well this is the RV’s maiden voyage, so to speak. We might want to note this error in our report.” Illya reached into the side door pocket and withdrew a map, passing it to Napoleon. “Do you think you could navigate without getting us lost?”

With a curl of disdain on his upper lip, Napoleon squinted over the map. “We could take the Mass Turnpike, which is Interstate 90, and continue on through New York State.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Illya said, checking the side-view mirror and putting the monster into gear as he backed out of its slot. “As long as we get to stop somewhere for some famous Boston lobster or perhaps some corned beef and cabbage.”

“That’s Maine and we’re not heading that way. Though some Boston cuisine sounds good. There’s sure to be some place we can stop en route.”

***

“Mainsville, Mainsville. Now, why does that name sound so familiar?” Napoleon repeated as he ordered coffee to finish off his meal.

“Jacqueline Midcult,” Illya said around a mouthful of food. He swallowed before continuing. “You remember. The Joe White show. ‘The school teacher who wrote the dirty book’. Blonde. A little ditzy.”

“Ah, yes,” Napoleon pondered thoughtfully. “How could I forget?” 

Mainsville, the little town where Jacqueline had written her first novel, Pieces of Fate, based on some diaries she’d found in her aunt and uncle’s home. Unbeknownst to her, those diaries had belonged to her uncle, one Charles Coltrane, a former Thrush historian, and had undoubtedly held references to future Thrush projects. Hence not only Thrush’s but U.N.C.L.E.’s interest in them and her at the time. Thrush’s attempt to take action of a more permanent nature, led to her loss of memory, her regression to the age seven, and eventually the three of them - Jacqueline, Napoleon, and Illya - taking a train to Mainsville. But that assignment had been ages ago.

Illya grunted as he pushed away from the table and wiped his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of one of the waitresses on the far side of the room. For a second he thought she looked a little familiar, at least from the back. Something about the strawberry blonde hair and the build…; when she turned around, her eyes were hidden behind thick glasses and her skin was flawless. 

***

“Tell you what. Since this is an all day drive, why don’t we take turns? I’ll take the first shift and you can sleep off all that food you’ve eaten,” Napoleon suggested with a grin as they pushed open the door and headed for their transportation.

“You just want to choose which station we listen to on the radio,” Illya accused.

“You mean the radio actually works?” Napoleon sniped with make-believe disbelief. 

Illya paused on the RV steps. Their last trip across country had been in the U.N.C.L.E. car, and while the RV was roomier, Illya wasn’t looking forward to hours spent on the road and was glad to take Napoleon up on his offer. It scared him at times how well Napoleon could read his mind. 

Taking one last look at the restaurant before entering the RV, Illya froze. In the shadows, he thought he saw a familiar shape. He blinked and it was gone. 

“Something the matter?” Napoleon asked from behind.

Illya hesitated, wondering if mentioning his suspicions that they were being followed were worth the teasing Napoleon would give him should he prove to be wrong. “Nothing.” Clambering up the last step, Illya continued toward the rear of the RV, unaware of Napoleon’s penetrating look into the darkness.

***

The approaching dawn saw Illya behind the wheel as they drove through Ohio on the way to Mainsville. The last ten miles had been spent driving alongside the same train tracks that had brought them to Mainsville the last time they’d been there. Napoleon had been correct in his estimate of how long this portion of the trip would take. 

One good thing about traveling in the RV was that they could travel in comfort during the night, much more comfortably than the new U.N.C.L.E. car which only sat two – barely. It was very quiet and Napoleon was currently stretched out in the back.

Five hour shifts had seemed reasonable. It was almost time for Napoleon to take over, but was it worth it to wake him when they were so close? The quiet was shattered by a sudden loud shout emanating from the back of the RV. Illya quickly turned the wheel and pulled over to the side of the road. Once the RV was no longer in motion, Illya slipped from behind the wheel and rushed back to the sleeping quarters. Napoleon, in the midst of some nightmare, was tossing and yelling in his sleep. 

“Napoleon,” Illya hissed as he turned on the light. “Wake up.” When that didn’t work, he bellowed louder, “Napoleon!” 

Napoleon, startled, jumped into a sitting position and blinked his sleep-filled eyes. “What… what?”

“You were having a nightmare of some sort,” Illya said, with a frown as he sat down on the bed. Nightmares were a norm considering their type of work and Illya wondered just what the source of this one was. “Care to talk about it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Napoleon snapped as he rubbed his face, feeling bristles and checked his watch. He caught the hurt look on Illya’s face and softened his tone. “Sorry.” 

“Does this have anything to do with your last assignment?”

“Maybe,” Napoleon answered reluctantly then changed the subject. “Isn't it time for me to take over?”

“I’m good for it. We’re almost there. Another hour should do it. As long as you’re awake, why don’t you clean up?” Illya shoved himself off the bed. He decided not to push further, knowing Napoleon would talk when he was good and ready. 

***

Freshly shaved and dressed in clean clothing, Illya stepped down from the RV and looked warily at the building across the square that housed Buck’s Bookstore. By the time they had made it into the town and found a convenient parking spot, it was almost opening time for the retail shops in the area. That gave them both plenty of time to freshen up, proving that there were definite advantages to traveling in a RV. 

“I’m surprised it’s still here,” Illya remarked, looking at the sign over the shop. He would have thought there would be something else in its place after all those years, since Mr. Buck had turned out to be a member of Thrush and was no longer around. “There’s the alley where Mr. Waverly hit me over the head.” Illya nodded toward the entrance way while patting the back of his head, reliving the sensation.

“Well, I very much doubt he’ll turn up to do it again,” Napoleon answered with a smile as he stood in the doorway shooting his cuffs. “I believe Jacqueline lives in her uncle’s old place. Think I’ll take the RV, drop in and say hello. You shouldn’t need me for this.”

Illya shook his head, grateful that Napoleon was in a better mood; he should have known Napoleon would find some way to get out of this. 

Small town life – it was as if time had stood still. Illya gazed at the buildings surrounding the square before crossing to the other side of the road. He turned back to watch as the RV drove away. He gave a quick glance to the alleyway next to the shop just to assure himself that no one was hiding there before pushing the door to the bookstore open. The tinkling of the bell over the door distracted him from further musing about another possible attack. Bookcases lined the walls and large tables surrounded by chairs were scattered around the room. At one of the tables, a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves looked up as Illya entered the shop. 

The door behind Illya shut just as the door behind the counter opened. A prim-looking woman, her face framed with short graying hair, moved to the register, carrying several books in her hands. Giving Illya a brief nod of welcome, she called out to her only other customer, “These the ones you wanted, Frank?”

Frank got up and checked the books over. 

“Thanks, Maud,” he grunted before reaching into his pocket to pay. In the meantime, Illya strode casually around the place, pretending to show interest in the books, the card rack, and the old style printing press.

“Something I can do for you, young fella?” Maud called out from behind the register. Frank had just left the shop, giving a barely civil nod to Illya in passing.

The loudness of the question in the quiet shop caused Illya to flinch. Rarely ever did he question Mr. Waverly’s instructions, but why here? Why Buck’s Bookstore? Illya took a deep breath and gave the code phrase. “Yes, I’m looking for a copy of A Tale of Two Cities.”

Maud looked thoughtful. “Not sure we have a copy.”

“I believe I saw one in the window,” Illya said pointing to one of the windows in the front. Both he and she walked over and looked at the display. There was no book of that title in the window. The silence stretched. Puzzled, Illya said, “I was sure I saw…” It occurred to Illya that Mr. Waverly hadn’t specifically said the book would be there. He felt silly as he continued with the charade. “I think Madame Defarge is simply gruesome.”

The woman looked at him speculatively. “I believe we have an understanding,” she said finally. “I was brewing some tea in the back room. Care to join me for a cup while I get what you've come for?”

Illya hesitated imperceptibly then followed her into a back room. He put an agreeable smile on his face even though he was uncomfortable with the way things were going. Still, he had used the code phrase and she did seem to know what he was here for. She smiled sweetly as she handed him a cup of hot tea which he sipped as she left the room.

Waiting impatiently, Illya finished the cup of tea in one final gulp. She’d been gone a long while, much longer than he’d expected. Illya was on the point of leaving when suddenly he felt light-headed. The cup dropped from his fingers, crashing to bits as he sank to the floor. 

Damn…drugged, he thought as he lay there conscious but unable to move. A pair of high-heeled shoes moved into his range of sight.

“Mr. Kuryakin. We meet again.” 

Somehow he managed to tilt his head enough to look up into the smiling face of Judith Merle, former book critic and member of Thrush. Surely she should still be incarcerated?

She bent down and took his jaw in her hand. The laughter ringing in Illya’s ears sounded just a little mad, her eyes bordering on insane. “Do you have any idea what my life’s been like since we last met?”

Illya was unable to open his mouth to respond. He was saved the effort when the door behind Miss Merle opened and her attention reverted to her apparent associate. Illya’s eyes managed to focus on the sweet-face Maud, her face no longer looking as sweet, as she came up to them. “I finally found it hidden away,” she said, holding out the book in question.

The former book critic snatched it out of her hand. “What could it possibly be?” she muttered to herself as she leafed through the book. “Tie him up and don’t forget to take away all his little toys,” she ordered.

As Judith Merle frantically skimmed through the book, her cohort bent over Illya’s prone body, going through his clothing.

“There’s nothing here,” Judith snarled, hurling the book across the room. “Finding out what is in this book could be the only way for me to get back in Thrush’s good graces.”

“Sure it’s not a secret code?” the fake storekeeper asked, looking up from her labors. “By the way, who is this guy? He has enough lock-picks on him to raid Fort Knox.”

“What about his communicator?” Jody snapped.

“This thing?” Maud asked holding up the silver pen-shaped communicator. Illya sighed mentally. It seemed every Thrush agent knew about their communication device. Before Judith could confirm, the sound of the door chime startled them both.

“Didn’t you put out the closed sign?” Judith demanded. “Get rid of them, whoever they are.”

Looking slightly contrite, Maud nodded then hurried back into the shop. 

***  
A young woman, her wavy strawberry blonde hair covered by a floppy hat with a wide brim and her face covered with a generous sprinkling of freckles, stood at the counter and flashed a smile at Maud. 

“Need something?” Maud snapped ungraciously, setting the pen shaped object on the counter.

“Yes, I’m looking for employment. May I speak with the manager?” the young lady asked hesitantly, her smile dimming.

“That’s me. Sorry, there are no openings at the present time.” Maud moved from behind the counter to the front door, holding it open pointedly.

“Oh.” The blue-grey eyes showed their disappointment. “Thank you anyway,” she said in a small voice dripping with regret. She picked up her purse and walked through the open door, taking with her Illya’s communicator. Once outside the building, she watched as Maud turned the open sign around, locked the door and disappeared. A sly smile graced her face as she opened the communicator and set the homing device before tossing it into a trashcan outside the door.

***

Napoleon pulled the RV up to the antiquated house and stepped out. The house looked much as he remembered it. Victorian style, the gray siding and white trim could have used a coat of paint. Going up the stairs on the front porch, he debated on the wisdom of renewing old acquaintances. Deciding he had nothing to lose, he knocked.

Footsteps greeted his ears followed by a familiar voice saying, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

With bare feet and wearing a pair of hot pink Capri’s with a matching top, she looked much the same as she answered the door, a pair of reading glasses hanging from her fingertips and her blonde hair pushed back behind her ears from which dangled an impossibly long pair of earrings.

“Napoleon Solo,” she squealed happily and flung herself into his arms. “It has been a long time. Let me look at you.” Then she looked over his shoulder. “What in the world?” She took him by the hand, leading him back to the RV. He couldn’t help smiling as she fired off questions, a mile a minute. “Is this yours? Can I see inside? Are you here on business? Where’s Mr. Kuryakin?”

“No, it’s not mine. Yes, you can. Sort of, and he’s around.” Napoleon smiled at her exuberance as he answered her questions. It amused him that he was addressed as Napoleon and Illya was Mr. Kuryakin. “You still writing?” he asked as he unlocked the door and let her wander around.

“Oh my, yes. Remember I said I’d started another book?” She looked expectantly at him. “Well, it’s another bestseller. I’m working on a third… Now that you’re here I’m sure I’ll get all sort of ideas.” Suddenly all the lights in the RV started flickering red.

“What’s that?” Jacqueline asked, her head moving from side-to-side in bewilderment.

Napoleon had a sinking feeling. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take a raincheck, Jacqueline. I fear Illya is in a bit of trouble.”

***

“Okay, Mister. You are going to tell me what is so important about this book!” Judith Merle demanded as she waved the book in front of his nose.

Illya lay on his back, his head lolling to the side. He had no idea what the drug was that she’d used; his tongue felt thick, there was no way he could answer.

“A silver camper’s just pulled up,” warned Judith’s associate.

“Damn!” Judith got up from were she’d knelt down to interrogate the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Slipping the copy of A Tale of Two Cities into her purse, she ordered, “We better get out of here.”

***  
Napoleon Solo burst out on the driver’s side of the RV closely followed by Jacqueline. He’d had every intention of leaving her behind, but her “Oh, no, you don’t, Napoleon Solo; not without me.” had ended that. She jumped into the RV after him, giving him little choice.

He held up a small square box, its beeping growing louder as he turned it first in one direction, then another. The beeping got the loudest when he faced the storefronts across the street.

“What—” Jacqueline started to say loudly. Napoleon shushed her. “What’s that?” she finished in a whisper.

“It’s a tracking device,” Napoleon murmured over his shoulder as he carefully crossed the street. “It should tell me where Illya is.” Once on the other side, he frowned as he followed the beeps, which led away from Buck’s Bookstore. He turned around, almost bumping into Jacqueline, just to make sure. When the sound faded instead of picking up, he turned back, frowning to himself as he followed the beeps, stopping when the sound got the loudest at a garbage receptacle. Searching through the rubbish, he located his partner’s pen-shaped communicator.

Where was Illya? Napoleon looked up and down the street. None of the people passing looked in any way suspicious. The last place Illya should have been was two doors down. With Jacqueline on his heels, he headed back toward Buck’s Bookstore. Even though it was early in the day and the shop should have been open, the sign on the door read ‘closed’. Napoleon tried the door. Locked. Glancing around, he pulled a wire from his watch and attached it to the knob. Hitting a button on the side of the watch, he pulled back as a charge went through the wire and sparked the doorknob. Placing a finger to his lips, warning Jacqueline to remain quiet, he tapped the knob, making sure it was cool before opening and entering the store. 

The lights were on, but it was deathly quiet inside. Napoleon walked quietly through the shop, stopping when he heard a moan coming from behind one door followed by the closing of yet another door. In an instant, he drew his gun and was through the door, spotting his partner trying unsuccessfully to get up off of the floor. Passing him by, Napoleon went on to the back door, opening it to find he was too late. Whoever had exited was long gone.

Napoleon turned back to find Jacqueline helping Illya sit up. “What happened?”

Illya seemed to be having trouble focusing. Napoleon knelt beside him, slapping him lightly across one cheek. When Illya’s eyes appeared focused, he asked again, “Illya, what happened?’

“I…I came in. There was…an elderly woman…at the counter.” He paused as if to get his thoughts together. “I gave her the code phrase ‘Do you have a copy of A Tale of Two Cities’.” Clutching his head, Illya let out a moan. “She responded correctly…but when we checked the window…the book was not there.”

“So then what?” Napoleon asked, puzzled.

“Then she invited me back here for some tea.” Illya sat up, holding his aching head in his hand. “I know, I know…it was stupid of me. The next thing … I’m lying on the floor and Judith Merle is standing over me.”

Jacqueline sucked in her breath. She had reason to remember the book critic. Then she looked thoughtful. “Did you say A Tale of Two Cities?” 

“Yes, why?”

Slowly she got up and went back into the store. Napoleon helped Illya up and followed as she searched through the aisle until she came upon a paperback book. She riffled through the pages as she rushed back to the U.N.C.L.E. agents. “Here,” she said, handing the book to Napoleon, pointing to a certain passage. “Page 23.”

Napoleon read aloud, “Carstairs had continued. “On the nineteenth of August you will walk into the bookshop and ask for Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities. “The nineteenth,” Mrs. Pollifax repeated eagerly. “The gentleman there, whose name as you can see is Señor DeGomez, will say with regret that he is very sorry…” his voice slowed as he silently read further. “You will go to the window with him and he will find the book there and you will say I think Madame Defarge is gruesome, don’t you?” Napoleon closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Now here.” Jacqueline took back the book to turn the pages and point. 

Illya took the book from her and read. “Damn.” There in black and white was exactly what had occurred. He closed the book and looked at the cover. The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax stared up at him and he shook his head. “It does not make sense. How would they know to follow the book?"

“So where is the…er…item,” Napoleon asked.

“Well, in the book, it was inside a deck of cards,” Jacqueline provided.

Napoleon and Jacqueline immediately began searching for a deck of cards. Illya stayed where he was, searching through the book. He looked up and his eyes lit on a poster hanging on one wall, a poster that announced the publication of The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax by Dorothy Gilman. Setting the book down, he walked over and removed the poster. There on the back was attached another quilt piece and a manila envelope.

***

Inside the phone booth at the train station, the young lady with the floppy hat dialed a number from memory. “Mission accomplished. Everything went according to plan. … Sir?” She paused, listening. “Aren’t they a bit old for scavenger hunting?” Another pause. “Yes, Sir.” Then the receiver went back on the hook for a second before being retrieved and another number dialed.

***

It was with great difficulty that they got Jacqueline back to her house and left her there. Illya had stayed in the RV while Napoleon attempted to talk her out of joining them on the rest of the trip.

Eventually Napoleon returned alone. The first order of business was to place the quilt piece with its mate. He sat across from where Illya reclined, stretched out on the bench seat at the table, his head covered with an icepack, and opened the sealed envelope containing directions to their next destination. “How’s the head?”

“Much better, thank you,” Illya answered. “Where to now?” 

“Chicago,” Napoleon said as he moved to the console and pulled down the radio to reveal the keyboard. “Why don’t you go lie down? Recover a bit,” he called over his shoulder as he rapidly punched in the information.

“Actually, I’m hungry. What’s available in our state-of-the-art kitchen?”

“345 miles. Almost six hours,” Napoleon muttered, quoting from the printout on the way to the kitchen area. “If we keep this up we should be home in…say a month or two or three.”

“Funny. 345 miles? That must be as the crow flies.” Illya made no remark on Napoleon’s ease and familiarity with the machine. He’d long since overcome his surprise at Napoleon’s abilities.

Napoleon searched through the cupboards. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they recycled food from the sub. We ought to stop and pick up a few things.”

“That will make us even later,” Illya warned.

“What’s an hour one way or the other?” Napoleon shrugged as he pulled out a can of soup. Quickly and efficiently he soon had two bowls of hot soup and a cup of hot tea for Illya, coffee for himself. 

It wasn’t long before Illya’s stomach began rumbling, demanding more substantial sustenance. They debated fast food versus sit-down when as luck would have it, a market with enough parking spaces available for the huge camper appeared on the horizon. Well aware of Illya’s penny-pinching ways, Napoleon insisted that Illya stay and recoup from his encounter with the obnoxious Miss Merle. 

The parking area was fast filling up, but there was still plenty of room for the monstrously oversized RV. Just to be on the safe side, Napoleon used the special remote to lock the RV and set the alarms before setting out. In that way Illya could rest in peace and not have to worry about anything. 

Shopping turned out to be an adventure. As Napoleon got closer a banner spanning the double doorway proclaimed ‘Grand Opening’ to all and sundry. A mental debate of turning back and leaving lost to the memory of the contents of the cupboard and the thought of how Illya would look at him if he came back without anything eatable. Accustomed as he was to smaller grocers, he turned, undaunted, to face the numerous and unfamiliar aisles. 

“Can I hep ya?”

He turned to face the biggest blue eyes, set in a make-up free face above a smock embossed with the stores name. He really must have looked lost, he thought. Smiling uncertainly, Napoleon found himself treated to a three minute lecture on each aisle and what they contained before the young lady found herself called away to help someone else. He started down an aisle and women, young and old, stopped to help him whether he wanted their assistance or not. By the time he arrived at the checkout, his cart was full of fresh fruits and vegetables, a couple of steaks, some cold cuts, and a few TV dinners. He also managed to pick up two bottles of liquor: one of Vodka and the other, Jack Daniels, deeming that man does not live by bread alone.

Rolling the cart out the door, Napoleon’s mind was on how he was going to hide the purchases in his expense report when thought he saw someone lurking near the RV. Leaving the cart, he quickly dashed across the lot, his hand automatically going for his gun. Only the crowd of people stayed his hand. By the time he got close enough, a dark sedan was pulling away. A curse escaped him as he was unable to make out the plates as it sped away. 

“Everything okay, Mister?” A bagboy appeared, rolling his wayward cart.

At first ignoring the kid, Napoleon checked the door on the camper. Since it didn’t have a conventional lock, there was no way to tell if someone had tried to pick it, but Napoleon’s sixth sense was tingling. 

“Yeah. Yes, everything’s fine,” he said absently, pulling a few bills from his pocket, thrusting it at the boy. 

“That’s some neato rig, Mister. Need some help getting your bags in?” asked the kid, his eyes betraying his interest.

“No, thank you. I can manage.” Napoleon wondered how much more excited the kid would be if he knew what Napoleon did for a living. He waited until the disappointed boy was out of sight before using his remote to get back inside the RV and unloaded the cart.

The first thing he did, even before unpacking the bags, was check the security system. There did not seem to be a breach. That done, he checked on Illya, finding him resting peacefully in the back sleeping compartment, evidently having given up on food for the time being. This more then anything did much to relieve Napoleon’s mind. Had someone tried to break in, Illya would certainly not be sleeping. Perhaps he was seeing threats where there were none. 

Finally he unpacked the groceries and put them away. Spreading the map upon the kitchen table, Napoleon spent time deciding on the best route before getting behind the wheel and pulling out. Chicago – next stop.

***

Behind a gas station a young woman, dark glasses covering her grayish-blue eyes, placed a nickel in a slot and dialed a number from memory. She tapped her foot impatiently while waiting for an answer, her eyes following a large grey RV as it passed by. A voice from the ear piece brought her attention back to the phone. “It’s me. You are not going to believe this…the stop…was for groceries.” She giggled. “Um…yes, the code worked perfectly, but Solo came back before…” A sigh. “Okay…yes…yes.” She hung up the phone with a little more force than necessary and hurriedly got behind the wheel of her dark sedan.


	4. Chicago, Chicago A Hell of a Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's off to Chicago where they run into Pia Monteri and her grandmother at their Pizzeria.

Illya’s internal clock woke him up. He stretched to get the kinks out, feeling better for the rest he’d managed to get. Slipping into his slacks, he checked his watch as his stomach rumbled, then headed toward the front of the RV in his stocking feet to complain. “I’m hungry. Did you get us something to eat?”

“We’re almost there. Have a banana,” Napoleon called over his shoulder, keeping his eye on the road.

Illya did just that, plopping into the passenger seat at the front. He snatched up the road map and played navigator through the streets of Chicago. At long last, they arrived at their destination. Stopped at the light, both men stared at the building, its plate glass window proclaiming Monteri’s Authentic Sicilian Pizza on the front-window. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Illya exclaimed.

“You know, I’m beginning to see a pattern here,” Napoleon said. He continued driving until he found a parking garage nearby. Taking turns, each freshened up before leaving their home-away-from-home in search of the next piece to their puzzle. As they walked down the street, each used the time to reflect on their last meeting with the owner, Pia Monteri. Years ago while following Herr Professor Doctor Von Kronen, they had ended up investigating Louis Strago, a member of Thrush. They’d been sent to Sicily where Strago was visiting one of his wineries. It was there that they first met Pia and eventually her whole family. That experience carried with it unpleasant memories for both of them.

She looked unchanged from the last time they had seen her in this very establishment. Her face lit up with surprise when she saw them. Rushing from behind the counter, her arms held out in greeting. “Napoleone´… Illya.” 

“Napoleone´?” Illya raised one blond brow.

Napoleon’s shrug said ‘what can I say’ as Pia wrapped her arms around both of them, giving them each an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. 

“It has been a long time, no?” She took Illya’s chin in her hand giving it a squeeze. “You’re still cute.” 

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and it was Illya’s turn to shrug. There was no point in explaining to Napoleon how he and Pia had spent their time trapped on Strago’s Island, an island Illya had later learned was U.N.C.L.E.’s intention to blow up.

Taking them by the hand, Pia dragged them toward a table at the back of the room. “Grandmamma, come see,” she called to the elderly woman behind the counter. 

“Señor Solo, Blondie, welcome.” Grandmother Monteri kissed each man on the cheek. “You will stay and have some pizza.” It wasn’t a question.

“Señora Monteri,” Napoleon said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Carlos,” Pia called out, as she seated the two agents at a table. “Some wine, please.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya saw a young lady enter the pizza parlor. He frowned. There was something familiar about her. She took a seat at a table near the door. Her blue-grey eyes, under shoulder-length blonde hair, widened as a handsome young man came out carrying a bottle of wine.

Pia drew him possessively close as he held out the bottle to the two agents. “Carlos Vincenti,” Pia introduced him. “My husband.”

Carlos brought Pia’s hand to his lips; it was obvious from his eyes that he worshiped her.

Napoleon looked at the label on the wine. “Strago’s Fine Wine.” He passed the bottle to Illya, whose eyebrows rose.

“Sí, my unkles. They bought out Strago’s winery,” Pia informed them; in spite of her years in America, her accent was firmly in place.

An imperceptible shudder went though Napoleon as he remembered how Pia’s uncles, former gangsters, had almost forced him into a marriage with Pia in this very town, all because Napoleon had been forced by circumstances to spend the night in her bedroom back in Sicily. There were still parts of that affair that Napoleon had yet to reconcile himself to.

Napoleon was unusually quiet, forcing Illya to carry the conversational ball as they sat, drank, and talked the hours away while Grandmamma Monteri plied them with food and fine wine. Napoleon nodded and smiled, but his mind seemed elsewhere. No mention was made of their reason for being there and Illya began to worry that they’d somehow made a mistake. He caught Napoleon’s eye and the two agents silently agreed that they might as well give up and leave. They needed to regroup and see if their last order somehow meant something different. Perhaps their turning up at Pia’s doorstep was just coincidental. Perhaps.

Illya’s eyes idly traveled to the young lady he’d spotted earlier while Napoleon did the honors of making their farewells. It struck him as odd that she managed to keep her head turned away, making it hard to get a good look at her. Before he could think of some way to get her attention…

“Ah, Señor Solo,” Mrs. Monteri called out. “You forgetting your pizza!”

Illya looked at Napoleon, seeing an expression just as puzzled as his own. Neither one, to his knowledge, had ordered pizza. Both had dined on Pia’s grandmother’s specialty – Chicken Marsala. Illya waited by the door as Napoleon he walked back to the register to take the box from her.

“That will be six ninety-five,” she said, holding out a large pizza box.

“Pay the woman, Illya,” Napoleon ordered imperiously, forcing Illya to return. 

He couldn’t help giving Napoleon a look of exasperation as he removed his wallet, taking out the requested amount. Illya pondered his dwindling funds before slipping the wallet back inside his jacket. Turning to follow his partner, he noticed that the young lady was gone.

***

Once outside, the two men crossed the busy street, working their way to the parking garage while managing to avoid being hit. One streetlight lit the area. 

“You don’t suppose…” Illya asked, looking at the box Napoleon held out in front of him.

“There's only one way to find out,” Napoleon said, handing the box over to Illya so he could use the remote to open the RV.

Illya stopped under the street light at the entrance to the parking garage while Napoleon continued on and took the chance to open the box, intending to take a peek, when he was hit from behind and someone’s hand reached around, grabbing at the box. His reflexes went into play and almost dropping the box, he managed to knock aside his assailant. That would have worked if there had not been two of them. Another hand gripped the box and during the tug-of-war the lid popped up and Illya was left holding the pizza itself. Where the hell is Napoleon? Illya thought as the first attacker managed to clobber him over the head again, landing him beside the RV, his hand covered with pizza sauce and the box missing. His senses detected the roar of two motorcycles and the sound of running footsteps and Napoleon shouting.

“They got away,” Napoleon informed Illya as he knelt over him, his gun pointing after two motorcycles that were quickly speeding away before he could get a shot off. Illya clutched the back of his head and hissed. The remnants of pizza remained upside down on the ground beside him. 

“You gonna be all right?” Napoleon asked, then growled with disgust. “I turn away for one moment to key in the code and you get clobbered.”

Illya nodded as Napoleon picked up the remains of the pizza with two fingers. Taped to the bottom of the pizza was a soggy envelope. With a look of distaste, Napoleon removed the envelope. Dropping the pizza remains to the ground, he helped Illya into the RV.

Illya went to the bathroom to wash the mess from his hands and get a couple of aspirins to stop yet another headache he felt coming on. When he came out, Napoleon gingerly opened the envelope, finding another piece of quilt inside. He looked inside the open envelope, blew into it and turned it upside down to see if anything else was inside. Nothing. 

“No directions?” Illya asked. He’d taken off his coat, tie, and shirt, leaving his t-shirt on and held a wet washcloth to the back of his neck.

Napoleon shook his head. “Must have been on the box,” he said philosophically.

“What do we do now?” Illya asked as he dropped onto the bench seat and transferred the cloth to his forehead.

“You got me.” Napoleon looked speculatively at the glove compartment with its radio. Mr. Waverly had specifically requested that they not call in. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the motor. If he had his way, they would be on the first road they came to out of town. Why, he wondered as he looked through the rearview mirror at his partner slumped down with his eyes closed, was it that Illya always took the brunt of any encounter? Neither of the goons had gone after him, but then he hadn’t been the one holding the box.

“If the directions were on the box, the bad guys know our next destination,” Illya said as he suddenly straightened up and unfolded the map upon the kitchen table.

“They already know more than I do and more than I would like,” Napoleon grumbled.

“Which way do we go now?” Illya muttered to himself.

“What are our choices?” Napoleon asked.

“If we head north, that takes us into Wisconsin, West – Iowa, and South – Missouri.”

Napoleon nodded as he thought about it. So far each leg of this journey had taken them to people they had previously met on assignments. Wisconsin brought to mind Dr. Mortley and the Invisibility Affair. Iowa also brought a previous mission to mind. What had it been named? Ah, yes. The Iowa Scuba Affair. He couldn’t think of anything that had happened in Missouri. “Wherever we go, we’ll need to stop and get some gas.”

“I’m sure something will turn up,” Illya said as he studied the map. 

***

“What are you reading?” Napoleon asked over his shoulder. 

Illya came up behind him and tapped said shoulder with a book. Napoleon took it from him and glanced through it. “The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax? Where did you get this?”

“Picked it up in Boston,” Illya said taking the book back. 

“You knew all along?” Napoleon shook his head. Illya would never cease to amaze him. 

“Unfortunately I hadn’t had a chance to read it before we got there, or I would not have drunk the tea,” Illya groused.

Napoleon nodded. That made perfect sense. “You know I’d rather put some miles between us and whoever it is that stole the pizza box.” The RV was too big and distinctive for his liking. “How does going south sound?”

Illya moved into the passenger seat and began working on the direction finder. “Who do we know in that direction?”

“No one. Which is why I suggested it.” Napoleon took the next turn that would lead them south. “We still need gas.”

Illya moved back into the kitchen area, going over the map once again. “If we keep on this road…It will take us into Bloomington.”

“Bloomington it is,” Napoleon agreed.

***

At a phone booth down from Monteri’s Pizza, the mystery blonde put a nickel in the slot. She was sure Kuryakin had recognized her and she had gotten out as soon as his back was turned. She’d also witnessed the unsuccessful attack on the two agents. “Sir, umm, there may be a problem. No, they got the pizza, but they were mugged and whoever it was got away with the box.” She moved the phone away from her ear. “Your orders were very specific. No contact.” She sighed heavily. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a cigarette case from her purse. Checking the dial inside she continued, “It looks like they are heading south.” Pause. “Yes, sir.”

After putting the phone back on the cradle, she inserted another coin and dialed again. Once there was an answer on the line she began, “What the hell is going on?”

***

They had gone maybe twenty miles in silence. Napoleon looked in the rearview mirror. Illya had been reading his book while stretched out on the bench seat and was beginning to nod off. “Why don’t you get some more rest,” Napoleon suggested. 

Illya jerked awake and nodded. There was nothing to be gained by sitting up, waiting to get to a truck stop. He had only taken two steps when the communication board hidden in the glove compartment beeped. Since Napoleon was driving, he waved for Illya to answer it. 

“Kuryakin here.”

“Mr. Kuryakin.” Waverly’s voice sounded loud over the speakers. “May I ask why the two of you are currently headed south?” 

Illya paused, wondering how Waverly knew the direction they were heading. He wasn’t looking forward to informing their superior of their partial failure. “Sir, I’m sorry to have to—”

“Yes, yes,” Waverly said impatiently. “I know all about your little faux pas. You should, however, be heading west.” With that said the connection was broken.

Illya stared at the microphone before slowly putting the communicator away. 

Napoleon cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. “He did ask why we were heading south.”

Illya nodded, though how Waverly knew was beyond him. “That he did.”

“Go west, young man,” Napoleon muttered as he searched diligently for a road that would take them in the right direction.

***

Napoleon kept glancing nervously at the gas gauge. Once he’d found a highway heading westward, he had decided it would be more to their advantage to stay with lesser used roads rather than stay on the predictable thoroughfare. However, now it might prove to be a liability. The line was creeping slowly toward empty. It was after midnight and there were no stations open. 

“There’s an auxiliary tank,” a sleepy voice called from the back. “Third switch on the left.”

Napoleon smiled; even half asleep his partner was watching out for him. Might as well let him sleep, Napoleon thought as he the sound of soft snores floated to the front. He didn’t feel like sleeping and it wasn’t as if his dreams had been all that peaceful of late.

He turned on the radio to find something to help keep him company. It seemed strange to him that with all the equipment on the vehicle, the radio could not pick up any good stations. He realized that the day was Sunday when the only stations he was able to pick up were playing spirituals.

Outside of heading westward, Napoleon had no idea what their next stop would be. As far as he could remember, Iowa was one vast area of wasteland. There was, however, one person with whom he was acquainted, and if this puzzle followed the current pattern… He did not like involving another innocent, especially as the bad guys were playing rough and in all probability aware of their next destination. Then again, their presence, his and Illya’s, might be the only thing that could save her.


	5. Why, Oh Why, Iowa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet up with Jill Spinner, formerly Jill Dennison.

It was a sunshiny Sunday morning and a strapping young man exited his front door, putting on his Sunday hat and wearing his best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Taking a deep breath of clean air, he spotted just outside the gate a huge, dusty, silver-grey vehicle, an RV the likes of which he had never seen before. 

“Jilly!” he shouted, just as the door to the vehicle opened and out stepped a dark-haired stranger.

A young lady, her blonde hair covered by her Sunday hat, stepped out the door. A grin lit her face as she grabbed her hat and waddled out to launch herself into the arms of the stranger much to her husband’s apparent chagrin. 

“Mr. Solo!” the former Jill Dennison exclaimed in excitement. 

Napoleon looked down on the young lady who was visibly pregnant. It had been, how many…six years since he’d seen her. That was when she had previously become involved with another young man, a saboteur, who was impersonating an airman.

A clearing of a throat behind him brought him back. Jill was staring up at his partner who was leaning out of the RV. “Oh, Jill Dennison, I would like you to meet my partner. Illya Kuryakin, Jill …I guess it’s no longer Dennison?”

“Ah…it’s a pleasure to meet you…Mr… Kuryakin?” Jill said, flustered. She looked down in at her swollen belly and laughed. “Bobby,” she called. “This is my…husband. Bobby… Robert Spinner. You remember Mr. Spinner… he was Bobby’s uncle. Bobby, this here is Napoleon Solo. Remember, I told you about him?”

“Mr. Solo,” Bobby said solemnly as he shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Kuryakin.” He nodded to the other agent. 

“Mommy!” A small voice had everyone turning toward the house. Standing in the doorway, holding a teddy bear, was a little girl who looked to be no more than two years old.

“Oh, Josie, honey,” Jill said, rushing over to her daughter and picking her up. It was not an easy feat with her swollen belly. “This is Josephine. We didn’t really know when you were coming and were just on our way to church.”

“You’re welcome to come with us,” Bobby said and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. 

Napoleon exchanged glances with Illya. “We…ah… really wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be intruding. Besides it’s Sunday and there’s nothing to do around here on Sundays. You’ll stay for lunch and supper too,” Jill insisted. 

“We’d be honored,” Illya replied, surprising Napoleon.

“Well, then…let’s go,” Jill said, leading the way to the family car.

After making sure the RV was secure, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents followed. Settled into the back seat, Napoleon would have dearly loved to ask his partner what was behind his acceptance, but Illya refused to meet his eye. Josie looked over the back of the front seat, her blue eyes wide, her thumb in her mouth as they drove down an unpaved road and stopped at a small church. 

Napoleon felt a little uneasy as they exited the car. Nothing untoward happened, but he kept a close eye out just in case. They followed the young couple and slid into a pew toward the back of the church. 

An organ started playing and the congregation rose to sing from hymnals. Then the preacher approached the pulpit and started preaching. Napoleon’s mind started to wander. From what he gathered, Jill had been expecting them, she just hadn’t known when. That was more than he and Illya knew. Of course now was not the time to ask questions.

The little girl was getting antsy. She wiggled off her mother’s lap and with her teddy in tow, climbed over onto Illya’s lap. She sat there, stuck her thumb back into her mouth, and stared up at him. 

It shocked Napoleon when Illya looked down at her and his features softened. Josie hugged her teddy, laid her head against his chest, and closed her blue eyes. There was a strange tug at Napoleon’s heart as he looked at the two blond heads next to him. He could imagine that she was close to what a child of Illya’s would look like.

At the end of the service, when everyone stood to sing the final hymn, Jill took back her daughter and Napoleon wasn’t sure, but he thought Illya reluctantly released her. 

***

Napoleon took them out to lunch at the only establishment open on Sunday. He and Illya garnered many curious looks, but no one had the bad manners inquire about their reasons for being there. Supper turned out to be the best fried chicken and mashed potatoes that Napoleon had ever had the good fortune to encounter and from the way Illya was packing it away, Napoleon was certain he, too, enjoyed the meal. 

In between keeping an eye on her daughter, Jill filled the agents in on the local gossip. When Napoleon asked about her aunt, whom he well remembered, he was informed that she had moved out once Jill and Bobby had married. When they returned to the Spinner’s, Jill handed over a package that she had received in the mail for them. She showed them the letter that came with it, which explained how she knew they were coming and after a light supper Bobby filled the RV’s gas tank from the farm’s personal supply. Instructions had been included for them not to open the package until they were well on their way across Iowa. 

***

 

Illya came out of the bath area, wiping his wet hair with a towel. The towel dropped around his neck, draping his terry cloth robe when he reached for the wall to catch his balance as the RV weaved. “Napoleon!” he shouted.

“Huh… What?” Napoleon blinked, his hands tightening on the steering wheel bringing the Bullet back into the proper lane. He shook his head.

“Pull over, Napoleon. Now!” Illya shouted.

Napoleon did as instructed, shaken by the fact that he’d almost lost control of the vehicle. He’d been driving ever since they left the Spinner’s place. With his hands still on the wheel, he stole a glance at Illya as he sank into the passenger seat and did a double take.

“Let me take over. You need to get some sleep,” Illya said reasonably. 

“I’m not…” yawn “…tired.” Napoleon said, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to stay awake. “That what you’re wearing to drive?”

Illya glared at him and tugged on his robe’s tie, binding it more tightly around him. “Are we far enough away to look into the package?” he asked, changing the subject.

Napoleon looked around. They were on a lonely stretch of road with acres and acres of wheat the only thing surrounding them. He got up and grabbed the package from where he’d left it and tossed it to Illya. “Here, you open it.”

Illya moved to the kitchen area, located a knife and with a few well-chosen cuts had the package opened while Napoleon put on a pot of coffee. One thing for sure, the Bullet beat traveling cross-country in the U.N.C.L.E. car.

“There is nothing here except the obligatory quilt piece and a picture postcard,” Illya said holding up the card in question and turning it so Napoleon could see.

Napoleon took the card and put on a pair of reading glasses with dark frames, much like the pair Illya usually wore.

“When did you start wearing reading glasses?” Illya asked.

Napoleon pulled them off and glared at Illya then he looked downward. “When did you stop wearing underwear?” he countered.

Illya looked down at himself, and adjusted his robe. “Oops.” 

In the excitement of the RV swerving, he had not had a chance to completely dress so he headed toward the closets to remedy the oversight. “We need to stop somewhere and have the water tanks filled,” he called out as he dressed.

“And find a cleaners,” Napoleon interjected as he studied the card. “I’m running out of clean suits.”

“Doesn’t this thing have a washer and dryer?” It came out muffled as Illya pulled a black turtle neck over his head.

Napoleon looked at him in disbelief until he noticed the grin on his partner’s face. “You know I think this is that space needle thing in Seattle,” Napoleon said, tapping the card with his glasses.

Illya took the card from him and brought his own reading glasses to his eyes. “Seattle – as in Washington? Who do we know in Seattle?” He pulled out the map and spread it on the table as Napoleon passed over a cup of fresh coffee and opened the safe. 

While Illya studied the map, Napoleon slid into the seat opposite him and spread the pieces of quilt on top of it. There were now four pieces. He rearranged the pieces and still could not make heads or tails out of it.

“Could you move those?” Illya requested. “They are blocking my view of Washington.”

“Sorry,” Napoleon said as he gathered up the pieces and got up to put them away.

“We are here,” Illya muttered to himself. “And we need to go here.” He used his finger to trace a line from one point to the other. “We could go through South Dakota, then Montana, across Idaho and into Washington. Isn’t your Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota?”

“It’s not my Mt. Rushmore, but yes, I believe it is. Why?”

“Would it be possible, do you think, to stop and look at it?” Illya’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm.

Napoleon smiled. “I don’t see why not.”

***

It was a tired and grumpy, and getting grumpier by the moment, Illya that drove down the narrow two lane highway. There was nothing to break the monotony. What had started out as being a ten-hour trip had lengthened considerably, mainly due to Napoleon’s insistence that they take back roads.

It was a reasonable precaution, Illya admitted. But the lack of changing scenery and low volume of traffic made it difficult to keep his mind on his driving. The only other time he remembered being this bored was when he and Napoleon had been forced to drive the U.N.C.L.E. car across country with three passengers in the front seat. Talk about a tight squeeze.

The next intersection indicated an entrance to a main highway. There was no point in asking Napoleon’s opinion. Illya turned onto the main highway. It was past time for Napoleon to relieve him, but he didn’t trust him to stay awake. During the six hours he had supposedly been sleeping, Napoleon had woken up twice in a cold sweat and hyperventilating. Worse, he was refusing to discuss whatever problem was bothering him. Not a good sign, indeed.

They were just crossing the line from one state to the other when yet another shout sounded from the back. Illya pulled over into the next rest stop and parked before angrily striding back to the sleeping quarters. He’d had enough. 

“Wake up, Napoleon,” he said as he turned on the light and nudged the tossing man awake.

“Wha— What?” Napoleon sat up, his hair sticking up in all directions and his pajama top soaked with sweat.

“You were having another one of your dreams.” Illya’s jaw tightened as he folded his arms across his chest and he looked down at his partner. “Now spill it.”

Napoleon pulled himself into a sitting position and considered not telling. One look at Illya and that idea flew out the window. Heaving a sigh, he started his tale.

“You know, of course, that I was assigned to protect Prince Phachete’s daughter.”

Illya nodded not wanting to interrupt the flow of explanation now that Napoleon was finally coming clean.

“I squired her around, took her to royal parties. Things of that sort.”

Illya frowned. Squiring beautiful young princesses around should not have engendered the nightmares Napoleon was having.

“She developed a…I guess you could call it…a crush…on me.”

Illya blinked. His expression blank. So? Napoleon was definitely taking his time telling this story.

“She kept after me. Wanting to…umm…” Napoleon faltered.

“Wanting to what?” Illya exploded. 

“To have…sex.”

Illya’s arms dropped in surprise, he shook his head trying to clear it. He could not have heard right. Napoleon, the man who enjoyed having sex, and would do so at the drop of a hat whenever the opportunity presented itself…what was the problem? 

“So, did you?”

“Christ, Illya! She’s barely sixteen!” Napoleon looked up at him, aghast. “That’s why she wasn’t happy with my…performance. I refused.”

Illya looked at him in confusion. “If that was the case…I don’t understand.”

“She kept forcing herself on me,” Napoleon explained. “I keep having these dreams. I wake up and she is in my bed…,” Napoleon turned red. “on top of me… It’s embarrassing.” Just the thought made him shudder. He did not like having these dreams.

Laughter bubbled up inside of Illya and he finally had to let it out much to Napoleon’s annoyance. “Congratulations, my friend, you have just developed a conscience.”

“I’ve always had a conscience,” Napoleon said self-righteously. Then he muttered, “It was just well hidden.”

“Move over,” Illya ordered as he sank down onto the bed and slipped his shoes off.

“What for?” Napoleon asked even as he moved to obey. “There is another bed,” he reminded him.

“I refuse to sleep on a table.” Illya tucked a pillow under his head, turned on his side at the edge of the bed and instantly fell asleep.

Napoleon looked over at him, shrugged to himself, turned facing the other way and once his head hit his pillow was out like a light.

***

The sounds of bullets hammering the armored top of the RV woke both agents. Illya was instantly up and running in his stocking feet to the front of the RV with Napoleon, still in his pajamas, not far behind. They could hear the whooping of helicopter blades, and looking out the window they could see a helicopter turning to come in for another run.

Without exchanging words, Illya hurriedly pushed a button, covering all the windows with armor. Swiftly, he jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine and was pulling out of the rest area before the machine gun could get a good aim on them again or harm the innocents who were taking cover at the rest area. 

Speeding down the highway, having to rely on a small screen set in the dashboard, Illya began weaving from side to side on the road, thankful that there were no other vehicles in the vicinity. 

Napoleon slid into the passenger seat and slapped the button that popped open the dashboard, to reveal an assortment of switches. Flicking a switch and turning a knob, he activated the heat-seeking missiles located in the air-conditioning unit on top of the RV. Once the light changed from red to green, Napoleon flipped the switch that sent the missile flying. 

Illya slammed on the brakes, as the missile struck its target, bringing the helicopter down in a nearby field. The copter was ablaze and he didn’t see how anyone could have survived. He grabbed a set of binoculars and departed the RV to climb on the rooftop checking for any movement.

Napoleon in the meantime had managed to put on some clothing and was looking up at him. “We had better make tracks before the cops arrive.”

Already sounds of sirens could be heard.

Illya nodded his agreement as he climbed down. Whatever questions he might have could wait. “Your turn to drive,” he said philosophically.

***

The question on both their minds was how had they been found? Napoleon immediately got them off the main road and once they had reached a point where Napoleon felt safe, he pulled the RV over under cover. 

While Illya went over the outside of the camper, Napoleon did the same for the inside. By the time Illya was finished, Napoleon had not only put on a pot of coffee, but fixed them each a sandwich. 

“Bless you,” Illya said. He tossed three items on the table before sitting down and hurriedly eating his sandwich.

Napoleon grinned at the unusual epitaph. “Those all you found?” he asked, nodding at the bugs before taking a bite from his sandwich. During his search of the inside, he had come across two. One he had located underneath the dashboard and one in the sleeping area. He was fairly certain Angelique was responsible for the one in the bedroom, though he could have sworn they had checked. He could only assume U.N.C.L.E. was responsible for the one under the dash. It would explain how Waverly had known which way they were going.

Illya nodded and swallowed. “One was hidden inside the spare tire, another under the step leading into the RV. The third was hidden just inside the gas cap.”

He watched as Napoleon frowned, studying each one in turn. As far as he could tell, they all appeared to be location devices of some sort. Gathering them up, Napoleon left the RV. Illya grabbed what was left of Napoleon’s sandwich, and followed, standing in the doorway he took a bite making sure Napoleon was not paying attention.

There was a lake nearby and Napoleon walked over, tossing one of the devices into the air as he went. He stopped at the edge and began tossing each device, one by one, into the water.

“Should you have done that?” Illya asked when Napoleon passed him, reentering the RV.

Napoleon shrugged as he moved into the driver’s seat, leaving Illya to close and lock the RV door. He glanced at the table, wondering where his sandwich had disappeared to. One look at Illya’s innocent face as he licked his fingers clean was all the answer he needed.

***

Napoleon spent a lot of time thinking as he leisurely drove through the rest of Iowa. He had debated with himself the wisdom of continuing or going off in an entirely different direction and came to the conclusion that it really didn’t matter. The Bullet was just too distinctive. 

After another five hours of driving, they pulled into a full service truck stop. The enthusiastic workers were replacing the water and removing the waste in the unusual recreational vehicle as well as checking out the tire pressure, looking under the hood, and refilling the gas tanks. Having located a full service cleaners as well, Napoleon was currently sitting in the lounging area, reading a newspaper while their clothing was being cleaned. 

Illya returned from the information center, skimming through several brochures he had picked up. He thought, just for a second, that he'd caught sight of a young lady who'd followed him in Boston? It hardly seemed likely. He shrugged, it must have been his imagination. Once at the cleaners, he sat across from Napoleon who traded his newspapers for Illya’s brochures. Certain pages with articles circled topped the group.

One, an Iowa paper, held the report on the helicopter crash. No identification on the dead. In another paper, this one from Wisconsin, reported a motorcycle accident involving two motorcyclists and an sixteen wheeler. The bodies had been identified as Judith Merle, famed book critic and Maud Henson. No reason was given as to why the two women were traveling on motorcycles. A second article in the same paper reported the break-in of the home of one Kerry Griffen in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

“Ah,” Illya said as he removed his reading glasses. They had met Kerry while working on the ‘Invisibility Affair’ over a year ago. 

“Umm,” Napoleon agreed as he perused the brochures. Inside were itineraries for several tours that covered Mt. Rushmore National Monument, onto the Little Big Horn in Montana before ending at the Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming. One tour went further; going on to the Grand Tetons, then followed the Oregon Trail into Salt Lake City, Utah. Each trip took eight days.

This trip was lasting too long as it was and Napoleon didn’t want to take another eight days. He wanted to get this over with. New York beckoned, but … than again ... “You know, I think we just might be able to work this in,” Napoleon said thoughtfully. “After all, whoever is following us would never suspect us of leisurely stopping to see the sights. Maybe not the whole tour, but I think we could work Mt. Rushmore and Yellowstone National Park in. What do you think, hmmm?”

What Illya thought was interrupted by the delivery of their cleaning. He left carrying the newspapers and the clothing, returning to the RV and leaving Napoleon to reluctantly pay the bill. U.N.C.L.E. would most certainly know of their location in a day or two when the purchases started to show up. 

***

Out of the backroom of the cleaners stepped a young strawberry-blonde haired woman, her blue-grey eyes covered by dark glasses. She reached inside her purse to retrieve money to pay the cleaner. She was well aware that her previous location devices were no longer functioning, but she wasn’t worried. She had just taken care of that. She moved to stand next to the plate-glass window, just out of sight but in time to catch Napoleon Solo put his wallet away and enter the RV. Reaching into her purse she pulled out an earphone, listening.

***

Napoleon stepped into the RV. He had no sooner closed the door when he spotted Illya looking down at a quilt piece. “Where did you get that?”

“In with the cleaning.”

“The old fox never misses a trick, does he?” Napoleon reflected.

Then came a knock at the door. Illya hurriedly hid the piece away, while Napoleon answered the door. Outside stood a deliveryman holding a large box.

“Solo and Kury…Kury..a..kin?” the man asked, looking at the label. 

“Yes,” Napoleon said. The hair was standing up on the back of his neck and he was not sure he wanted to admit to it. Then Illya was at his back, looking over his shoulder. Any uncertainty Napoleon may have had vanished. With Illya at his back, he wasn’t worried. 

“Package for you.” The guy stated the obvious and held the package out. Napoleon reached for his wallet and paid the man while Illya took the package and carefully set it on the table.

“Do you think it’s a bomb?” Illya asked, staring down at the package.

“Only one way to find out.” Napoleon backed away as far as he could get and actually stay in the RV. “Open it.”

Illya glared at him before turning to the box and pretending to hesitate, he cut through the tape holding the package shut. Glancing over his shoulder, he noted that Napoleon’s eyes were shut and a tiny smile played across his face.

When nothing went boom, Napoleon opened one eye and peeked. “What’s in there?”

Illya’s eyebrows drew up to the top of his forehead. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s a ‘Care Package’.

Napoleon’s eyes were puzzled as he drew near. First out of the box was a camera, the likes of which would make any tourist proud. Then two pairs of sunglasses followed. Underneath that were a couple sets of casual clothing. At the bottom of the box lay a manila envelope, the contents of which they dumped on the tabletop.

Illya’s eyes lit up as he spotted tickets and reservations for the Big Thunder Gold Mine and the 1880 Train & Mount Rushmore Lighting Ceremony Tour. Flipping through the itinerary Illya noted that according to the tickets, reservations must be made forty-eight hours in advance and the tickets in his hand were dated for today. He looked at his watch. They had to hurry if they were going to make it. He looked up excitedly then his mood shattered as he looked at Napoleon’s face. 

“I don’t like this.” Napoleon frowned, shaking his head. “It’s too convenient.”


	6. Seeing the sights of Montana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our guys take a break to visit Mount Rushmore and play tourist for a change.

In spite of his misgivings, Napoleon found himself at the Big Thunder Gold Mine. They had changed into the casual clothing provided and driven to Keystone, the better to blend in as they joined the tour, which consisted mostly of families with kids. His ears winced at the shrieks they let out. He stood on the outskirts of the tour group, keeping his eyes open for…well, anything. 

His eyes softened when they rested on his partner. He hadn’t seen Illya this enthusiastic, except when reading his ever-present technical journals, and the one time Mr. Waverly had mentioned some Russian pianist. The last couple of assignments that the two had worked on together, Illya had seemed particularly…not tense, but more just going through the motions. Not that he wasn’t the best man to have backing you up, even so.

Napoleon’s eyes moved to the tour guide. An easy thing to do. She was young, but not too young and she knew her job. At least he thought so; a goldmine discovered in 1882 just was not his thing. Illya, however, seemed to be hanging onto every word. Napoleon’s eyes crinkled as he checked his watch. If they didn’t get a move on, they would miss the 1880 Train & Mount Rushmore Lighting Ceremony Tour that started at three o’clock.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw someone slip away as he turned in that direction, he kept an eye open, but didn’t spot anyone suspicious. He stopped in at the gift shop and was looking around when Illya showed up. 

“Look,” Illya said enthusiastically, showing off a nugget that he had panned for.

“You’re just a big kid, you know that?” 

Giving Napoleon an affronted look, Illya wandered off. That gave Napoleon a chance, once the Russian’s back was turned, to purchase a couple of items that Illya had shown an interest in.

Back in the RV, heading back to Hill City in time to join the Train tour, Napoleon could tell that Illya was curious about the package. He kept Illya dangling while he fixed them sandwiches during the drive.

Illya’s eyes kept going to the bag as he parked the RV in the first convenient space and turned around to take the sandwich Napoleon handed him. Finally, he gave in. “What’s in the bag?”

Napoleon’s eyes twinkled as he picked the bag up and deliberately dangled it in front of his partner’s eyes. “Open it and find out.”

The look of anticipation on Illya’s face made Napoleon smile; however, it quickly turned into a scowl when the first item pulled out proved to be another piece of quilt. 

Napoleon’s first reaction was to pack up and head out. Forget the 1880 Train Ride. Illya argued that since Waverly had supplied the tickets he therefore expected them to use them. Napoleon didn’t give a damn; he had had enough of the search for pieces of the stupid quilt. It was the disappointed look that he managed to catch in Illya’s eyes that swayed him.

“Okay, but if one of us gets killed…” Napoleon capitulated, secretly pleased at the quickly hidden look of delight on his partner’s face.

“Don’t worry, Napoleon,” Illya assured him. 

Napoleon could only hope he was right.

***

The train ride would have been enjoyable if the two agents had not expected something to happen. There were quite a few things to do in Hill City and Illya looked tempted to check it out, but a quilt piece showing up at The Big Thunder Gold Mine had put them on alert. 

At Illya’s first sight of the antique locomotive, a broad smile swept across his face, his eyes brightened and his fingers twitched to get his hands on it. He licked his lips, put the special camera up to his eyes, and snapped a few shots. 

On closer examination, the U.N.C.L.E. camera proved more then just a simple camera. There were the usual symbols, but the lighting meter had one extra setting, a bullet shaped symbol. On further investigation, the camera in fact fired bullets. It was not just a dummy camera since it actually took pictures, but a duel-function weapon-camera fresh from the research lab. The usually dour Russian half-smirked. Once again, they were testing a new gadget in the field.

They boarded the train along with about fifty other passengers. Illya casually strolled through the various cars, surreptitiously taking shots of all the occupants. As far as he could tell, no one looked out-of-place, or even suspicious. But then, neither did they. Illya, having raided the weapons stored under the bed, was a walking arsenal.

“You know…at least one of us should act like a tourist,” Napoleon said out of the side of his mouth to Illya.

Tension left Illya as a tiny smile flitted across his face. Pretending to gape out the window at the scenery along with most of the other passengers, Illya began snapping pictures while Napoleon moved to a seat at the back of the carriage where he had a good view of everyone and pulled out the brochure Illya had procured earlier.

A seven-hour tour, according to the brochure. Napoleon continued to read ‘From there, you travel to Mount Rushmore National Monument where an impressive program presented at dusk awaits you.’ Napoleon could hardly wait. There was something about this assignment did not ring true. Glancing at his partner, it appeared that Illya did not share his misgivings. Either that or he was a better actor then Napoleon thought of him.

At Mt. Rushmore, Illya read aloud from the brochure. “‘This epic sculpture features the faces of four exalted American Presidents. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln. South Dakota’s Black Hills provide the backdrop for Mount Rushmore, the world’s greatest mountain carving. These sixty foot high faces, five hundred feet up, look out over a setting of pine, spruce, birch, and aspen in the clear western air.’”

Illya looked up, impressed by the sight of the faces of four of America’s greatest leaders lit against the night sky. Even Napoleon had a lump in his throat. It was indeed a spectacular sight.

“A magnificent way to honor your American presidents,” Illya said solemnly.

Napoleon draped an arm around his partner’s shoulder and squeezed slightly. “No reason why they couldn’t be yours, too.”

Illya grunted, but he also had a thoughtful expression on his face.

By the time they got back on the train, both men were jittery. The tour was almost over and neither man had been contacted. They were quietly discussing the possibilities of why when they turned into the RV parking area. Every light on the vehicle was flashing. After exchanging a quick look, they drew their guns and ran toward the Bullet. Illya shut off the alarm and checked the locking mechanism on the door while Napoleon circled, checking to see if he could find the culprit as well as checking the bus over.

Satisfied that there was no one around, Napoleon reentered the RV to find that Illya had pulled aside the panel hiding the TV monitor and was using a gadget of some sort to access it. 

“What’s that?” Napoleon asked, plopping down on the sofa.

“I’m reviewing the surveillance tape.”

“I mean that,” Napoleon pointed to the gadget in Illya’s hand.

“Oh, this? R & D developed this; it’s rather like the clickers we use with the slide projectors at headquarters. I understand RCA has shown interest in it.”

Napoleon, annoyed that he was not aware of that capacity in the Bullet, perked up and leaned forward when a red light started flashing at the bottom of the screen. Illya hit a button that slowed the speed down. There was someone at the door, trying to get in. Either the camera angle wasn’t good, or the person knew how to stay out of the camera’s range. Whoever it was seemed to give up in disgust and turned away. For a split second the camera honed in on whoever it was. Illya froze the tape. It wasn’t the best picture. You could tell it was a woman but that was about all.

Napoleon tilted his head as he studied the frozen image. Something about it was familiar. His eyes squinted. “I know her,” he stated, pointing his finger at the picture. When he realized from where, he snapped his fingers. “She was in the restaurant…Pia’s.”

Illya studied the picture. “The girl at Monteri’s was a blonde.” 

“I don’t know about the hair. But that’s her, I’m positive,” Napoleon stated with certainty.

Illya was fiddling with the controls, honing in on the face. The camera had caught her just right, the picture was black and white, but you could make out the freckles splattered across her nose. “That’s the girl from Boston!”

Napoleon raised an inquiring brow.

Illya sighed. “I thought she might be following me.”

“And why did I not hear about that?”

“I wasn’t sure. It could have been my imagination.”

Both brows rose. “Illya, you have no imagination,” Napoleon said sternly.

There was a slight twitch at the corner of Illya’s mouth that turned into a slight smile. He knew he should have mentioned it. He also knew Napoleon wouldn’t belabor the point. “So we should leave right away?”

Napoleon gave it some thought. “Nah. We might as well start out in the morning. Who knows…maybe your mysterious friend will return and we can get some answers.” With that decision out of the way, Napoleon lowered the table and pulled down the bed that he would be sleeping on while Illya checked the alarm system.

Sometime in the early morning hours, Napoleon turned over yet again, the futility of ever actually sleeping on a thinly disguised mattress a foregone conclusion. Impossible. He turned over, trying to find a comfortable position. This mattress was thinner than the one in the back, much thinner. Giving up, he swung out of the bed, grabbed his pillow, and headed for the back of the RV. Tossing the pillow on the bed, he slid in carefully, so as not to disturb his partner, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

 

***

Napoleon was dreaming when his nose started twitching. The smell of fresh coffee penetrated his senses, waking him up. He followed his nose to the kitchen area where Illya, fully dressed, was fixing breakfast.

“Good morning.” Illya handed him a cup of coffee then went back to scrambling eggs. There was a bemused expression on his face at the sight of his disheveled partner. “Sleep well?”

Napoleon scratched his head, mussing it even further, and took a sip of the coffee. “Let’s put it this way. You were right about sleeping on a table. That has got to be the most uncomfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on, and you know I’ve slept in some god-awful places.”

“Yes, I know. I was there.” Illya smirked. “Get dressed. These should be ready in a moment.”

“But will they be edible?” Napoleon asked, draining his cup and heading for the bathroom to clean up.

After a quick shower and shave, Napoleon felt almost human again. Pouring himself another cup of coffee, he sat at the table, while Illya spooned some of the eggs onto a plate. Taking a bite and swallowing, Napoleon was forced to confess, “Not bad.”

He ignored Illya’s snort as he picked up his plates, washed them and put them away. Moving to the driver’s seat, Napoleon checked the dash gauges making sure everything was a go. “Anything interesting happen during the night?” he asked as he pulled down the dashboard and started punching in a request for information.

“Nothing,” Illya confirmed as he checked over the rest of the vehicle. 

Both had agreed that contacting Waverly was useless. During the final briefing, he had been adamant about their not contacting anyone from U.N.C.L.E., including himself, during their travels.

Driving distance 1189 miles – driving time 16 hours, 57 minutes. Experience had taught Napoleon that if they drove without stopping they might make it within that time limit. But was that something he wanted to do? Somehow, someone out there knew what they were doing, even if he and Illya did not. It was time to shake things up a bit. Napoleon checked all the gauges, started the RV, and headed out.

“Get out your handy dandy little booklet and find us some places to stay at on the way,” Napoleon instructed.

“We’re not driving straight through?” Illya asked.

Napoleon shrugged, his eyes constantly moving between the side mirrors, checking to see if anyone was following them. “What’s the point?”

“We could get back home faster,” Illya said, as he hovered over the map spread out upon the kitchen table.

There was that, Napoleon thought, but lately he’d been wondering if getting back was really worth it. What would it be like to just lose yourself, start all over? Explore America and actually see it.

“Okay, if we stay on this road it will take us across Wyoming, up to Montana, across Idaho, into Washington State.” Illya’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Anything interesting?”

“Does it matter?” Illya tossed aside the map. Elbows on the tabletop, he rested his chin on his fist. “Can we not get this assignment over and done with?”

“What’s the matter? Got a hot date back in New York?” Napoleon’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

“That is more your line than mine,” Illya retorted. “We could have flown from place to place and accomplished the same thing.” He leaned back against the seat. “There is too much time on this assignment to think.”

That startled Napoleon. What was it that Illya thought about, and why did he sound… just as disgruntled as he himself felt?

“Do you ever feel that there is no point in what we do?” Illya asked. “We take out one bad guy and there is another to take his place.”

This was too weird, Napoleon thought. “What brought that on?” he asked.

Illya sighed and went back to studying the map. Maybe it was cabin fever.

***

Illya pulled into the parking space and waited. When nothing was said, he turned around in the driver’s seat. “We’re here.”

Napoleon, sitting at the table, never even bothered to look up. 

“You okay?” Illya asked worriedly. 

Napoleon had been acting strangely for the past day. Neither man had gotten any sleep nor had they talked much, ever since Billings, Montana. They had stopped for something to eat and were leaving when the waitress stopped Napoleon. “Sir, you dropped this.”

She held out a manila envelope. From where Illya stood, Napoleon looked on the point of refusing, when he noticed the name on the outside. Solo. Napoleon’s face had tightened as he took the envelope from her with a terse, “Thank you.”

When they got back to the RV, Napoleon didn’t bother opening the envelope. He just opened the safe and tossed it in on top of the rest of the quilt pieces.

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon slammed his fist down on the tabletop. “Damn it. How does he do it?”

Illya didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. They had driven a couple of miles before stopping to go over the RV with a fine tooth comb. They had searched every inch of the RV, even taking all the armaments out and checking them. Illya himself had gotten underneath the RV to search to no avail. 

Illya shook his head and headed to the back to clean up. Freshly shaved, he stopped in the doorway and looked back at Napoleon before heading out. “Meet you later at the Space Needle?”

A terse nod was all he got in answer. Napoleon’s mood had altered several times over the course of this trip. He didn’t understand Napoleon. His eventual confession had seemed to prove helpful in easing what nightmares he’d been having, but now he was showing signs of irritation, unusual in and of itself. Not that his own mood was much better; perhaps if Illya was lucky, maybe Napoleon would get some sleep while he was gone and snap out of whatever mood he was currently in. There were times when it seemed Napoleon wanted to enjoy this trip, then after Billings, he had been in a hurry to get to Seattle.


	7. First stop – Seattle’s Convention and Visitor’s Bureau.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon runs into Victoria Partridge, Emory Partridge's niece, from The Yukon Affair and she tries to kill him.

Next stop was a diner, where while eating he spread out all the pamphlets he had picked up. The first one he pulled was the one relating to the Space Needle. Fairly new, having been built in 1961, Illya soon learned that it was 605 feet in height, built for the 1962 World’s Fair. Frankly, it reminded Illya a little of the flying saucer he and Napoleon had encountered before. He wondered if they had the same designer. Simon Sparrow had been rich enough to afford it. 

The other brochures contained information about the Waterfront, the zoo, the art museum, and now this might prove interesting, he thought as he looked over the last brochure, the Pacific Science Center. Illya wondered if he would have time to visit. Lately his thoughts had wandered to life after U.N.C.L.E. His interest in science might prove to be an option.

Folding the brochures and putting them into the inside pocket of his jacket, he wiped his mouth one last time, left a frugal tip, and made his way to the cashier to pay for his meal. Catching a cab at the corner, Illya leaned back against the seat cushion and watched Seattle go by. They were driving through the University area when Illya spotted just the place he was looking for. Tapping the driver on the shoulder, he asked to be let out at the next corner.

Stepping out of the cab, Illya walked to the entrance of what proved to be the University branch of the public library. Pushing open the door, he walked in and headed toward the main desk. 

“Can I help you?” the librarian asked.

“Yes, thank you. I am interested in reviewing some scientific journals.” Illya knew more or less what he wanted to look for.

The librarian smiled. “Just a moment. I think I know just the person to help you.” Illya watched in suspicion as she moved away from the counter and walked over to a grey-haired man nearby. Talking in a low voice that didn’t carry, she nodded in Illya’s direction.

“DOH-bree d’yen’,” the grey-haired man said, holding out his hand when he reached Illya’s side. “meh-N’YA za-Voot Aleksei Lebedev.” He switched to English. “You are Russian, yes?”

“Da,” Illya replied. “How did you know?”

Aleksei smiled. “We have large Russian community in Seattle. Miss Breack could tell from your accent and thought I might be of more help to you.”

Illya reserved judgment on that and told the man in what he was interested. During Simpson’s quick briefing they’d had on the RV, he had glossed over it, just mentioning it by initials. Illya’s eidetic memory had retained enough that he had wanted to check on it. 

As they searched through the library’s extensive collection of scientific journals, Illya learned that the library had a special program that involved the Russian community in Seattle. A whole community that was Russian. It had been a long time since he’d felt lonely for companionship of someone from his native land. Something for consideration at a later date. Right now he had to get back to his search.

It took a while; there was only one mention. An insignificant article in one scientific journal. GPS – Global Positioning Systems. Something out of Star Trek or out of the future. Satellite signals to equipment on the ground where it transmitted data that indicates its location. And U.N.C.L.E. had one of the few satellites to make it work, the same satellite that powered their pen communicators. Illya learned that GPS receivers required an unobstructed view of the sky. That meant it could be thwarted. 

It also explained how the equipment was able to estimate travel time and distance. Not to mention how U.N.C.L.E. knew where they were. Illya thanked his compatriot politely and left to bring Napoleon the news.

***

After Illya left, Napoleon sat at the table trying to get a handle on his feelings. He was having trouble figuring it out. It wasn’t burnout. His last couple of assignments had not been all that dangerous. Anything but, unless you counted running from a pubescent teen as dangerous, this in its own way was. It was more – boredom. 

Illya had once warned him all his womanizing would lead him into trouble. Though Napoleon would never have believed it, it looked as if he might be right.

Everything lately, each assignment, left him feeling unfulfilled. The thrill of the chase was gone. Perhaps it was time he moved on, left U.N.C.L.E., but what would he do? An old nursery rhyme ran through his head. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. While he was far from being wealthy, he was by no means poor. Most definitely not a poor man. As for being a beggar man, there was not a chance. There never was a Solo who had to beg for anything. That left thief. Or possibly conman? He rubbed his hands over his face. This line of thinking was ridiculous and getting him nowhere. If he tried to explain it to Illya, he would probably be laughed at. Come to think of it, if it got Illya to laugh, it just might be worth it. 

Napoleon brought his hand to the back of his neck, massaging the muscle. He looked around the opulent RV. What he wouldn’t give for a bed in a five star hotel, and a bath…a long, luxurious, hot bath.

He glanced at his watch, surprised by the lateness of the hour. He had promised to meet Illya at the restaurant in the Space Needle, hadn’t he? Sadly, he felt that the abilities he had worked hard to hone were disintegrating.

***

Napoleon did his best to blend in with the other tourists. As had all the others, Napoleon was handed a packet with information and discount coupons for various activities surrounding the Space Needle just before entering the elevator. Most of the passengers in the elevator got off at the restaurant level. Napoleon decided to continue up and enjoy the view from the top before meeting Illya.

While the lights twinkling in the darkness below were nice, they were nothing spectacular. Napoleon had seen similar sights in places like Paris, Rome, and Istanbul, some of the most exotic places in the world. He strolled around the observation deck, taking in the sight of Seattle from every direction. There were quite a few people around when he had arrived doing the same. He didn’t notice that security was quietly herding everyone except him towards the elevators. It didn’t register when he turned back for the elevator and the clicking of heels followed him. 

He felt a gun muzzle shoved into the small of his back and a feminine voice ordered, “Turn around slowly, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon raised his hands and dropped his head, disgusted that he had been taken so easily. Even after his earlier debate with himself, he’d managed to let his guard down, simply because this mission was a glorified milk run.

Slowly, he did as he was told. His eyes started at the three inch heel, and slid up to the shapely ankles followed by the even shapelier legs that showed beneath her skirt which ended just above the knee. By that time a charming grin spread across his face as his eyes roamed over a well-cut suit in a shade of blue that matched the cold eyes in the meticulously made-up face. If it weren’t for the gun, held in her manicured hands, he might have found her attractive.

“Charmed,” he murmured.

“Why, Mr. Solo. You’re as fit as ever, still playing games?” Victoria Partridge smirked sarcastically.

His nose twitched as he sniffed in disgust at her jibe, the few extra pounds he had gained over the past six months of inactive assignments coming back to haunt him. He glanced around, careful not to make any sudden moves. “I assume your Uncle Emory is around somewhere?”

Fire flashed in her eyes. She managed to control her temper to respond. “I’m afraid Uncle Emory is currently vacationing in Majorca with Aunt Edith.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, wondering how Emory Partridge had conned his way out of the predicament he and Illya had left him in, dangling from the ceiling, strung up with Victoria in the Yukon. Victoria seemed none the worse for it.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Napoleon asked, starting to bring his hands down, only to raise them once again when Victoria gestured with the gun.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this moment,” Victoria said, advancing on Napoleon, hatred shooting from her eyes. “I’ll take it from here,” she ordered the fake security guards, motioning for them to leave in the elevator. There was a glint of madness in her eyes as she gestured him to move away from the elevator and soon had him backing toward the observation windows. “Uncle Emory was of the opinion that we should let bygones be bygones. I swore, however, that if I ever saw you again I would send you to the same hell you left us in.” 

Napoleon froze in shock. Did that mean that Victoria was responsible for this farce of an assignment? He didn’t have a chance to ask, for with that final statement she rushed toward him, pushing him backwards toward the only open observation window, her momentum taking her with him.

***

“Tsk, tsk. Just can’t take you anywhere.”

Napoleon looked up at the blond head looking down upon him. He was hanging by his fingertips, having just managed to twist and get a grip on the windowsill as he went over. Illya reached down and helped pull him through. 

“Anyone I know?” Illya asked as Napoleon looked down at crowd that was gathering around the splat Victoria had made on her 540-foot drop.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Napoleon said, taking Illya by the arm and pulling him toward the stairway. They were half way to the restaurant level when three armed men burst through the door and started upward. Illya turned to go back up when that door opened, admitting two more men heading downward.

“Looks like you’ve drawn yourself an assignment,” Napoleon said.

Illya nodded. Ducking below the rail, the two waited until shots rang out from their opponents before popping up and snapping off a couple of shots of their own. Illya turned, sending a flurry of shots past Napoleon and hitting one of men moving upward, while Napoleon dropped flat on the stairs and shot upward, taking out the last man. 

Brushing back a dark curl out of the way from where it had draped over his forehead, Napoleon inspected the carnage.

“I suppose that means that supper is out of the question?” Illya asked as he put his U.N.C.L.E. special away.

“Looks that way,” Napoleon agreed.

The two managed by some serious skulking to make their way back to the RV, avoiding the mass of policemen who gathered to investigate the body at the bottom of the Space Needle. Napoleon could only wonder what the uproar would be like when they found the bodies in the stairwell.

A quick check proved that the RV was good to go and Napoleon was soon maneuvering the vehicle out and away from the crime scene. A light came on in the eating area and Napoleon checked the rearview mirror. Illya was going through his pockets, empting them of guns, wallets, watches, and other paraphernalia that Napoleon had been unaware that he had found time to stop and confiscate.

“Anything interesting?” Napoleon asked.

“Just this.” Illya moved behind the driver’s seat and passed a card over Napoleon’s shoulder. A card with a Thrush logo.

***

The ride away from the scene was made in silence. Napoleon wasn’t really surprised by the card. It had been obvious for some time that Thrush was aware of their assignment. What bothered him was the lack of communication from headquarters. Was there a point to it? It was like a game with he and Illya as pawns. Napoleon straightened in the driver’s seat as the thought occurred to him. What if they were a diversion? Now that idea held possibilities.

It wasn’t until the Space Needle could no longer be seen that Napoleon finally pulled over. He turned back to bring his hypothesis to Illya’s attention, only to find him investigating the packet that Napoleon had gotten at the Space Needle. 

“You still haven’t told me who your little playmate was,” Illya said as he sliced opened the flap on the manila envelope.

Napoleon looked blankly at his partner. Surely he had recognized her, but then again the only view Illya could have had was from the back so… “Remember Partridge?”

Illya looked up, nodded.

“His niece, Victoria?”

“Oh, her.” Illya nodded, enlightened. A tiny smile flitted across his face as his memory brought back the assignment from some years ago and a young Eskimo girl named Murphy. He couldn’t help but wonder, for just an instant, what had happened with her. Had her dreams come true for helping her people? That was one of the drawbacks of his job, never really having time to make or keep up with friends. Even Napoleon’s romances were rarely much more than one night stands. He got up out of the passenger seat and moved to the kitchen area where he could spread out the contents of the parcel. “You do attract the most unsavory of females.” 

Napoleon couldn’t help grinning at that statement. He watched as all the items from the package were dumped on the table. Somehow, in all the excitement, Napoleon had still managed to maintain possession of it. Amidst all the brochures, were some round disks and a piece of cloth.

“Where did you get this?” Illya asked with a raised eyebrow.

“At the Space Needle. Just some tourist information. Why? You want to go back and see some of the sights?” Napoleon asked.

“More importantly who gave it to you?” Illya asked, ignoring Napoleon’s questions.

Napoleon closed his eyes, the better to recollect. There had been two or three young ladies, dressed in uniforms, handing out packets. All he could remember was long hair, large glasses, and freckles. Damn. Freckles. Making a face, he opened his eyes. “Our mystery lady strikes again,” he said dryly.

“Friend or foe?” Illya pondered as he examined the cloth before turning his attention to the metal disks.

Napoleon eased out of the driver’s seat and went to study the latest quilt piece while Illya turned the six, four-inch disks over and over. 

“What are they?” Napoleon asked curiously.

“I’m not sure,” Illya said twisting one of the disks. Each disk had a white label marked one though six and instructions that indicated that they slipped into a slot in what looked like the dashboard of the RV. Sure enough, in the dashboard was a slot that neither man had ever noticed. “But I believe they go here.” 

As Illya started to put the disk into the slot, Napoleon laid a hand on his arm stopping him. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Illya shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” He held the disk into the slot and watched as it was automatically sucked in, backing away swiftly just in case Napoleon’s caution should prove necessary. The speakers in the RV came to life.

If you're going to San Francisco  
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair  
If you're going to San Francisco  
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there

For those who come to San Francisco  
Summertime will be a love-in there  
In the streets of San Francisco  
Gentle people with flowers in their hair

All across the nation such a strange vibration  
People in motion  
There's a whole generation with a new explanation  
People in motion people in motion

For those who come to San Francisco  
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair  
If you come to San Francisco  
Summertime will be a love-in there

If you come to San Francisco  
Summertime will be a love-in there

With jaws slack the two agents stood side-by-side as the music flowed from the speakers, followed by at least six other songs all with the same theme.

“Well, that clue is obvious enough,” Napoleon said dryly.

“Unless it is something to throw us off,” Illya offered as he reached for the disk that slid, all on its own, back out from the slot.

“Nope. I don’t think so. This has Waverly written all over it.” Napoleon was busy studying the quilt piece. Frankly, it looked virtually identical to all the other pieces in their possession. Setting aside the piece, he returned to the driver’s seat, pulled down the radio to enter their destination. “San Francisco here we come.”

“Nyet!” Illya growled, pulling Napoleon’s arm away from the keyboard.

“What on earth!” Napoleon said in astonishment, his jaw dropping. Illya rarely, if ever, lapsed, into his native tongue. He raised one eyebrow. “Something you need to tell me?”

“Da. I mean, yes,” Illya said, letting go of Napoleon’s arm. “Sorry. I went to the library and found out some useful information on the GPS.”

“GPS?”

Illya nodded. “Global Positioning System. It is how U.N.C.L.E. is able to keep track of us.”

“Just how?”

“What good would it be to explain it to you? You wouldn’t understand it. Too technical,” Illya teased.

“Hummph.” Napoleon snorted then decided to change the subject. “What’s with the lapse into Russian, Tovarisch?”

Illya shrugged. “Seattle appears to have a strong contingent of Russian Immigrants. The librarian who assisted me is one. Sometimes… ” Sometimes it was nice to revert to his native language. Perhaps when he retired, should he live that long, he might come back to live among his people. Napoleon would undoubtedly not understand, Illya thought as he looked away and sighed. “Never mind.”


	8. San Francisco in the Summertime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya run across Ward Baldwin and his wife Irene in San Francisco. Having first met them in "The Dagger Affair" by David McDaniel.

Napoleon drove into San Francisco. Without using the GPS, they had had to rely on maps. Frankly, Napoleon did not miss the machine. Knowing the estimated time of arrival had made him antsy when they weren’t able to keep to it. Illya had finally explained about the GPS. 

“Napoleon, Global Positioning Systems or GPS signals move at the speed of light and are so far ahead of their time that they could easily fall into the Star Trek category. This is still in the early stages. So far there is but one GPS satellite and it is under U.N.C.L.E. control. It transmits data that indicates its location and the current time. The supposition is that if you use more satellites, the information gathered is more accurate. Napoleon, are you taking any of this in?”

Napoleon had assured him he was.

“With this technology they can find our location with relative ease. The biggest drawback for them is GPS receivers require an unobstructed view of the sky, so they are used only outdoors and often do not perform well in forested areas or near tall buildings.”

“That means if we wanted to lose them we could?”

“Why would we want to?”

Napoleon hadn’t been able to come up with a good reason why. Just that he was tired of being so easily found.

Their drive down the coast to San Francisco was uneventful. Illya seemed to be in a gloomy mood and much to Napoleon’s irritation, he had not been forthcoming about what was bothering him. Napoleon thought that he knew his partner well enough to know when there was something that Illya was extremely reluctant to talk about. Whether that something was good or bad, he had no idea.

On the way they had done a little speculating as to where the next piece of the quilt was to be collected. They had double checked all the pamphlets and found nothing. Illya thought there might be a clue in one of the other disks. Only the first pertained to San Francisco, the others had a variety of songs, jazz, Broadway tunes, classics, country, and, much to Illya’s dismay, rock.

Napoleon had a pretty good knowledge of San Francisco. To Napoleon, the song suggested a park, so Golden Gate Park it was. Napoleon found an out-of-the-way spot to park, not an easy thing to do with the narrow streets San Francisco was famous for.

They discussed contacting the local U.N.C.L.E. office, but Mr. Waverly’s instruction still ruled that out. With the song that had led them to San Francisco reverberating through his head, Napoleon led the way after locking the RV behind them. 

The two agents strolled casually toward the park, Illya using his internal compass. 

Illya, wearing his usual basic black and sporting a pair of flip-flops, was the more casually dressed of the two. Napoleon had opted to dress in his normal suit and tie. As they got closer to the park, Napoleon stopped suddenly as he noticed, parked on a side street, a Volkswagen mini-van, brightly decorated in bright colors with huge flowers. He cocked an eyebrow at Illya. If they were going to be conspicuous, why not go all out? Who would expect two U.N.C.L.E. agents to be driving around in such a garish vehicle?

“No! Absolutely not.” Illya glared at Napoleon. 

Napoleon chuckled. Illya knew him too well. Illya shook his head and the two continued until arriving at the entrance where Illya turned to his partner. “Okay where do we start?”

“Maybe we should look for someone with freckles,” Napoleon suggested with a grin, ignoring the look of disgust from Illya. “You know, as many times as I’ve been here on assignments, I have never actually had a chance to stop by and enjoy the park.” 

“And you won’t now,” an ominous voice spoke from behind them. “Raise your hands and turn around slowly.”

Their shoulders slumped, Napoleon emitted a low growl and the two agents did as they were told. Sure enough two apes, their eyes covered by dark glasses, stood behind them, weapons pointed at their midsections. The spokesman gestured with his gun toward a dark sedan parked nearby.

As he slid into the back seat, Napoleon sent a questioning glance Illya’s way and received a slight headshake in reply. Napoleon relaxed into the seat, taking that to mean that they should wait. The windows were blacked out so they had no idea where they were going. 

Finally the car stopped and they were instructed to get out. Napoleon paused and stared at the stately Victorian home then turned to Illya whose expression was one of resignation. With two guns at their backs, Napoleon and Illya entered the house and were escorted to the dining room.

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. How nice to see you again. You’re just in time for lunch,” Ward Baldwin said waving away the two brutes and indicating with his hand two place settings that appeared to be awaiting their arrival.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged distrustful looks then pulled out their chairs. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” Napoleon asked politely.

“Gentlemen, shall we put off discussing business? Nothing takes precedence over my wife’s cooking,” Baldwin commanded.

From previous experience, the two agents knew better than to argue and indeed, as they had good reason to know, Irene Baldwin was an excellent cook. 

“You and Irene are looking extremely well,” Illya remarked as his plate was set before him.

“Why, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Baldwin beamed as Napoleon gallantly pulled out her chair. “I do think retirement has done Ward a world of good.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that, while Illya managed to keep his facial features neutral. Neither man believed that Ward Baldwin was retired from THRUSH.

The four of them talked of inconsequential things during the meal, with Irene monopolizing the conversation. 

“Illya, dear, I understand Alexi Radinski had a recent showing in New York. Did you get a chance to go see it?” Irene asked innocently. 

Illya froze, the fork poised at his lips. He set the fork down before replying, “I was not aware of that, no.”

“Such a pity.” Irene turned to Napoleon. “His work is most unique. Ward and I own one of his earlier pieces. Most people assume his…er…portraits are…shall we say…slightly exaggerated. ” She turned an inquisitive look Illya’s way. “I wonder if that’s true?”

Napoleon spared a glance toward Illya whose face was now drained of color. Personally he had never heard of this Radinski, though obviously Illya had. He couldn’t help but wonder just what Irene was getting at. 

“Did you hear about poor Victoria?” Ward Baldwin asked his wife, changing the subject.

“No, dear,” Irene answered.

“It appears she had a fatal accident. Fell off the…what do they call that damn thing…you know the tall building in Seattle?”

“The Space Needle, my dear?” Irene supplied.

“Yes, exactly,” Ward thanked her. “I don’t suppose the two of you would know anything about it.”

The two agents exchanged looks. “No,” they said in unison.

“Such a pity. I hear a lot of that is going around. Just the other day I learned that Jody Moore was no longer with us. By the way, Mr. Solo, have you heard anything from dear Serena lately?” Irene’s question, out of the blue, brought Napoleon’s attention, which had still been on Radinski, back to her.

“Irene, I don’t think now is the time or place to bring that up,” Ward said firmly.

“But, dear, I do think he has a right to know,” Irene argued.

Illya was looking at him, his eyes wide while Napoleon frantically cast his mind back to their previous encounters in the hopes of figuring out what Irene was getting at.

“Irene!” Ward said warningly.

“All right, dear.” Irene’s tone one of disappointment. “All I will say is that I feel Mr. Solo would be wise to undergo a complete physical once he’s back in New York.”

Illya choked on his food, while Napoleon sat very still, shocked at this turn in the conversation.

Napoleon began to understand that she was doing this on purpose, thereby setting off alarm bells in his head. He snuck a glance at Illya, getting a feeling that he was just as apprehensive, though no one else could tell from looking at him.

The conversation from this point on was of a less personal nature. By the time the meal was over, Napoleon had managed to maintain the appearance of being thoroughly charmed, all the while surreptitiously looking for a means of escape. He resisted a sigh of resignation when Baldwin insisted they continue their conversation with drinks in the parlor. Irene excused herself, saying she wanted to supervise the clean up in the kitchen. Napoleon, hoping to forestall whatever it was Baldwin had planned, gallantly offered his assistance to no avail.

As Baldwin led the way, leaning heavily upon his cane, the two agents couldn’t help but notice that the two goons standing outside the door followed them in. 

“Gentlemen, as enjoyable as our visit has been,” Baldwin said, his back turned as he poured several glasses of cognac from a crystal decanter. “I fear it is time we get down to business.”

Even though he had known from the beginning that this was much more than a social call, Napoleon had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. As much as it pained him, Napoleon decided there wouldn’t be a better chance and pulled his gun. One of the goons proved fast, taking the gun away. Illya was looking embarrassed as the other goon relieved him his gun at the same time.

“Mr. Solo, I am surprised at you. Where are your manners?” Baldwin seemed honestly shocked. “And you, gentlemen. Didn’t you search them before you brought them here?” he demanded of his minions.

The two musclemen looked at each other. “Ya didn’t say ta search ‘em,” the taller of two said.

Baldwin sighed. “Good help is so hard to find. Do it now,” he commanded thumping his cane hard upon the floor.

Napoleon and Illya found themselves unceremoniously searched. Napoleon’s eyebrows drew up when he saw the arsenal his partner had garnered about his person.

All pretense of cordiality left as Baldwin paced back and forth while the two agents were divested of their weapons, shoved down, and securely tied to two high back chairs. 

“Alexander would not have sent you two traipsing about the country without a good reason. I would like to know what it is,” he demanded.

“Umm, the old man decided we needed a break?” Napoleon replied, his head tilted to one side as he looked up at Baldwin.

“Yes, we have been working hard of late,” Illya chimed in, doing his best to sound sincere.

Baldwin’s laughter resounded throughout the room. When his laughter had died away, he turned to his two underlings. “You see, even in the face of danger, they still manage to maintain a sense of humor,” he said, clearly amused. He moved to the side of the fireplace and pulled the cord that dangled from the ceiling. A chime was heard in the distance. Baldwin moved to stand in front of the two agents. With a sigh of regret, he said, “I fear, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, that drastic measures must be called for.” 

The door to the room opened and a familiar young blonde-haired woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform entered the room carrying a medical bag.

“Ah, Robin, my dear,” Baldwin acknowledged her presence. “Your professional services are needed.” 

Without a glance at the two men tied to chairs, the young woman moved to an end table, set her bag down, and retrieved a syringe and vial from it. Napoleon had the sinking feeling that Baldwin had been prepared for this.

“I think, my dear, that we shall start with the harder nut to crack. Gentlemen, will you please assist Mr. Kuryakin with the removal of his jacket?”

Napoleon squirmed, trying to find some weakness in the knots that held him in place as Illya was untied and divested of his jacket, leaving him only his black, short sleeved, sports-shirt. Giving up his struggle, he watched as Robin knelt next to his partner, giving him an apologetic look before pressing the plunger home.

Illya started to look ill almost immediately, worrying Napoleon. Desperate to help, he tried an old gambit. “Fight it, Illya. Think of something. Think of girls.”

Illya raised his head to glare, his stare a little glazed. “That did not work the last time.”

“Okay,” Napoleon agreed. “Think quantum mechanics.”

Illya nodded and started concentrating. It seemed to be working. Eventually, however the drug took effect and Illya succumbed. 

“Mr. Kuryakin, can you hear me?” Baldwin asked.

Illya nodded before answering faintly, “Yes.”

Baldwin smiled triumphantly. “Good. Now tell me where you and Mr. Solo are heading next.”

Napoleon dropped his head, keeping his sigh of relief internal. That was the one question neither of them had the answer to.

“Don’t know,” Illya mumbled.

“What do you know about Project Quilt?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t honestly expect me to believe that, do you?” Baldwin demanded angrily.

Illya looked up at him through bleary eyes and shook his head. “Nope.”

“Bah!” Baldwin raised his hands in the air in disgust. “Take them back where you found them.”

“Hey, what about me?” Napoleon asked in open-mouthed amazement.

Baldwin puffed up. “There is no point…Victor warned me about you.”

Ward Baldwin stalked out of the room, leaving an extremely puzzled Solo behind.

 

***

The light was fading as Baldwin’s men, true to Baldwin’s word, dropped them off exactly where they’d been picked up. It amazed him that they had not only been let go alive, but all their weapons had been returned intact. 

“You okay?” Napoleon asked, concerned. Illya sagged against him, looking extremely pale, and muttering in Russian. Suddenly, Illya's face turned green and he staggered to the nearest trash can, upchucking.

Illya wiped his mouth on his jacket sleeve, glaring at Napoleon as he hunched over the wastebasket. “Do I look okay? My head hurts, my stomach is revolting. I don’t know what that was they used, but the after-effects are nasty. Why is it these things never happen to you?”

“Maybe we should get you back to the RV?” Napoleon frowned as he pulled his silk handkerchief out of his pocket, wetting it at a nearby water fountain before wringing it out. “I can come back and check the park out later.”

Illya accepted the offered hanky and wiped his mouth with it. Two seconds later, he was bent over the trashcan once again. 

“Hey, man. Is he like…okay?”

Napoleon turned to find two young people, their hair long and stringy, both dressed in what appeared to be unwashed jeans, torn t-shirts, and sandals. 

“Ah…something he ate didn’t agree with him,” Napoleon said as he maneuvered his partner to a nearby bench. The two young people nodded and continued on their way, wrapped in each other's arms. 

Napoleon was in a quandary; he wanted to get Illya back to the RV but he also wanted to check out the park. Something told him this was where they were supposed to be.

Illya must have sensed his dilemma. He pushed Napoleon away, commanding, “Go.” Patting his jacket under which his gun lay, he added, “I can take care of myself.”

Napoleon gave in and started down the walkway that ran through the middle of the park. He knew that even in his weakened state Illya was more than capable of defending himself.   
As he got closer to the middle of the park, Napoleon heard singing.

All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. 

The music wasn’t emanating from a radio; it was live, a young couple performing vocals as they strummed their guitars upon a makeshift stage set up in one corner. Scattered around were young people of every size, shape, and color. All long-haired, some in jeans, others in long dresses, footwear ranging from bare feet to boots and sandals. Couples intertwined, demonstrating what free love was all about. Most appeared glassy-eyed as their heads bobbed to the beat. 

Napoleon felt out of place as he wandered through the throng. Vaguely he became aware of someone softly playing a harmonica. The thing that caught his attention was the tune. His mind supplied the words – 

If you're going to San Francisco be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. 

Focusing on the sound, he meandered toward it, quickly finding the young man playing the instrument. 

As he got closer, the young man lowered his mouth piece and looked up at the over-thirties establishment type, strains of ‘and the beat goes on’ floating in the background from the duo on the platform. “Hey, dude,” the young man said in way of greeting. “You Solo?”

Napoleon nodded, not surprised. The young man held his hand up in a silent request to be pulled up. As Napoleon did so, he felt something being slipped into his pocket. He wasn’t expecting it when the young man pulled something from the breast pocket of his tee and flipped what appeared to be a coin. Napoleon caught it in mid-air as the young fellow went back to his instrument, this time picking up on the song that the couple on stage was singing. 

Napoleon pocketed the coin without looking at it and walked away, the strain of la de dada de, la de dada da ringing in his ears. He didn’t notice the young man nod to the female on stage. Had he paid particular attention, he would have noticed the long hair framing the freckled face and hazel eyes hidden behind granny glasses.

Napoleon meandered through the crowd a bit more, checking to see if he was being followed before heading back to his friend. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found Illya, more or less where he had left him, though Illya was now holding his aching head in his hands.

Illya’s head lifted as he got closer, his eyes questioning. Napoleon nodded confirmation that he’d gotten what they had come for as he started to help his partner up. “Can you walk?” he asked.

Illya glared. “But of course,” he growled resentfully. To demonstrate, he got up a little faster then he intended to and almost toppled over.

Napoleon caught him, unsuccessfully trying to hide a grin, and draping one of Illya’s arms over his shoulder helped him on the walk back to the RV. It was a testament to how bad Illya was still feeling that he let him.

They made it back to the RV, Napoleon keeping an eye out for signs of trouble. After getting Illya situated, Napoleon did a security check. When he was sure they were as safe as could be expected, he joined Illya in the bedroom. Illya had managed to get undressed and collapse on top of the bedspread.

“Are you sure you got what we need?” he asked around a yawn.

“I think so,” Napoleon said, retrieving yet another quilt piece and a coin from his pocket. He examined it closely, his eyes widening at his discovery. Flipping it to Illya, Napoleon watched as he, too, examined it. 

It proved not to be a coin, but a chip – a $100 chip with the logo of a one of the famous casinos in Reno, Nevada. The Sands Hotel and Casino.

***

Illya tossed the chip aside as uninteresting as he lunged toward the bathroom. He was still feeling woozy from the drug he’d been given. 

He was certain of one thing, someway, somehow he was going to come up with something equally devious to get even with Ward Baldwin. He couldn’t be bothered to think about it now, emptying his stomach once again. He was too busy being sick. 

Napoleon was at the door, a glass in his hand. “Is it getting worse? Do we need to get you to a hospital?”

Illya, rinsing his mouth, spitting into the sink, shook his head. Nice as it was to know that Napoleon was concerned, it wasn’t necessary. Sleeping this off was what he needed. Illya staggered into the bedroom, falling to sprawl flat across the top of the bed. He immediately curled up, his stomach cramping.

Napoleon was there in an instant, a wastepaper basket in his hand. “Here. Do you need this?”

Illya shook his head and curled up even further, a whole new set of stomach pains flowing through him. He could hear Napoleon searching through the emergency medical kit, cursing when he couldn’t find anything that would help. Until they knew what was in Illya’s system, trying any type of pain reliever might only make it worse.

“I’m getting you to a hospital,” Napoleon finally said in frustration. 

“Nyet. No, I’ll be fine,” Illya gasped out, stopping him. The pain was already receding. Illya managed to straighten his body out and roll over onto his back. The pain had worn him out, but he had endured worse. The pain was replaced by a floating sensation and as he drifted off he could feel his shoes being removed. In his lightheaded state, he was aware of his outer garments being removed. A prick of a needle in his arm brought him closer to consciousness, but not enough to awaken him fully. Covers pulled over him, and a hand brushed his hair back from his forehead as a sigh of contentment escaped him

Napoleon smiled wryly as he turned away from checking to see if his unconscious partner was running a temperature. In his current state, Illya appeared much younger than his years. Frowning, he glanced at the blood sample he held in his hand, wandering what sort of devilment Ward Baldwin and/or Thrush had brewed up this time? In spite of Waverly’s admonition, he fully intended to send the sample off to the nearest U.N.C.L.E. lab as soon as possible.

First, they needed to leave town. Napoleon was pretty sure they hadn’t been followed from Golden Gate Park, but there was no sense tempting fate. The chance that Baldwin might change his mind and try to worm other secrets out of them was too great. Napoleon shivered. If Illya's reaction was anything to go by, the drug was none too pleasant.

After making sure everything was shipshape, Napoleon pulled out. His biggest regret, as always, was that the RV was so distinctive. As he moved to pass a wildly multi-colored van, he decided it could be worse. He amused himself as he drove by imagining the U.N.C.L.E. RV covered with a psychedelic paint job and Illya’s reaction to it. He was quite certain Illya would never agree to something so insane. 

Fingering the chip, Napoleon smiled. Las Vegas. Gambling, shows, women, adult women. Things were definitely looking up.


	9. Las Vegas –Can’t lose for winning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya run into Ginger LaVeer and Shelden Velben of The Super Colossal Affair when they end up in Vegas.

Illya rolled over, waking up. His mind was a little woozy; his head still throbbed. The worst thing was the nasty taste in his mouth.

“Feeling better?”

Illya turned his head, but his questioner was no longer in sight. He was debating whether it was worth the effort to get up when Napoleon returned, a mug in one hand and a plate of toast in the other.

“I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come around,” Napoleon said, handing over the warm mug.

Illya snorted as he took a sip of the hot tea, making a face at the bitter taste. When he looked up to complain, Napoleon was gone again. He soon returned with a jar of jam, placing it next to the plate of toast. 

Taking a tentative bite of the toast, Illya spooned some of the jam into his tea, Russian fashion. When it appeared that everything was going to stay in his stomach, he scarfed down the rest. With his mouth full he asked, “Where are we?”

Napoleon sat down next to Illya. “First, do you want to tell me what Edith was talking about?" 

Illya shook his head. “No. Not really.”

Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose, resigned to not learning more.

“It’s stupid,” Illya admitted.

Who is this Radinski fellow?”

“He’s a painter I met while going to the Sorbonne.” Illya shrugged. “He asked me to pose for him.”

“Is that all?” That didn’t seem so bad to Napoleon.

“In the nude.”

Napoleon’s eyes widened. He did a rough estimate in his head. Illya had been what – twenty-three? There was the comment Irene had made about parts of his picture being exaggerated. Napoleon knew for a fact that Illya was well endowed and he was probably even thinner than when Napoleon first met him, if that were possible so. Napoleon laughed out loud at the picture in his head. His laughter settled into a chuckle, he would definitely have to find that picture; the teasing material alone would make it worth it. Just his luck the exaggerated parts would be Illya’s ears.

Illya’s eyes narrowed. Probably from being able to read Napoleon’s mind after all these years.  
Time for a little tit for tat. “Maybe we should take you to a hospital. Just what is it Serena could have done to you?”

Napoleon sobered quickly. “Whatever it was should have shown up by now. I’ve had at least three very thorough physicals since then.” Time to change the subject. “I thought you wanted to know where we are. Look out the window.”

Illya turned so he could see out the back window, hitting the button that raised the bulletproof covering. It was dark out. From this vantage point, he could see down the well-lit section of highway into the town. The brightly colored lights triggered a memory. He’d seen this view before, though the angle had been different. Trying to remember was making his head ache so he rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Let me ask again. Where are we?”

“We’re parked at a rest-stop just out of town.”

“That’s a big help. Okay, we are no longer in San Francisco. Could you please tell me where we are?”

“Vegas. Didn’t see any reason to hang around in San Francisco. We’ll be at the hotel in about…oh…twenty minutes, so you might want to get dressed,” Napoleon said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Suddenly, he frowned. “Unless you’re not feeling up to it?”

Illya nodded somewhat dully. He must have been out longer than he thought if they were already in Vegas. He was far from clearheaded, but the contents of his stomach were still in place. He pushed back the covers. “I shall be right with you."

It took a bit longer then expected, but by the time he cleaned up and his stomach had been satisfied, Illya felt more himself. So far, they had been playing this by ear and it appeared that going in the same way was the height of folly. Illya felt that a plan was clearly called for. 

Napoleon had a plan – of sorts. The two of them to spend the next three days and equally important, three nights, in the hotel, enjoying the use of a full bath and a soft bed. When Illya insisted that consisted of no plan at all, Napoleon pointed out that as they didn’t know how they were to be contacted or who the contact was, there was no way to effectively plan for this. Planning was a moot point. Unfortunately, Illya had to agree that Napoleon was right.

That was how it stood, as the two agents stood poised, just inside the gambling area. Napoleon, his dark hair neatly in place, made a final adjustment to his tie. Illya, his maroon jacket over his short-sleeve sport shirt, looked much more casual. 

They looked around, then made their separate way down the short stairway, one toward the gaming tables, the other to the slot machines. Illya wandered around, watching as people played the slots. Even as early as it was, there were quite a few people about. No one in the area looked suspicious. Napoleon insisted he was to have fun. Enjoy himself. If someone contacted them fine. If not…fine. Even though he wasn’t really interested, Illya stopped in front of one of the machines. It seemed to be calling his name. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. Slipping it into the slot, he gripped the handle and pulled. Round and round went the drums, pictures of different items sliding past. Eventually they stopped and a few coins splattered into the tray. It was only five coins, but four coins for one was okay by him. 

Illya continued through the room, curious at all the different machines. Occasionally he would stop at another machine as the spirit moved him and repeat the process. There were machines in a variety of shapes and sizes, as well as types. Each time he played a machine he was rewarded with more coins. Soon he had more coins than he could hold. He looked around uneasily. A waitress passing by noticed his dilemma and offered a drink and a bucket to contain his ill-gotten gains. The drink he declined; the bucket he kept.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not lose. Even switching machines didn’t help. First, it was five coins, then ten, fifteen, and twenty. Illya scowled. By now, there was a crowd of people gathered around him, cheering him on. Enough was enough. At the next machine he put in the most money allowed. Holding his breath, he pulled the lever. Round and round the reels spun, the first one stopping on 7, then another 7, followed by another 7. When the reels finally stopped spinning there were five 7’s in a row and money pouring out of the machine, overflowing the basket. Illya glared at the machine in continued frustration. Suddenly the back of his jacket was pulled up. Illya turned his head, his eyes moving up and up past masses of muscles until they stopped at the scowling face of a huge black man. On Illya’s other side stood yet another large man. At a glance, Illya spotted the bulges under their armpits.

Just as quickly, the crowd around him dispersed.

“You coming with us,” one of the men growled menacingly.

“Hey! Let me go,” yelped Illya looking around. Where was Napoleon when he needed him? “For what purpose?” Illya glared at the man not holding him up. 

The men didn’t answer. They just stood looking at each other. Illya debated on what he should do. The two men were much bigger than he and Illya doubted he could take them both, even with Napoleon’s help. 

“You a foreigner, or somethin’?” The one holding him growled suspiciously. “What kinda accent is that?”

“Good grief,” Illya muttered. He glanced from one man to the other and decided going with them was the better form of valor and not to debate the issue. Not that he had much of a choice.

Reluctantly he found himself dragged away from the machine, his feet barely touching the floor. He was tossed into a small room. 

“Empty ya pockets,” the goon holding him ordered, shaking Illya in the process.

All things considered, it seemed a normal enough request, so Illya emptied his pockets. At least they hadn’t shot him out of hand. Illya removed all the change, his keys, comb, and penknife, along with his wallet, communicator, and one of the hotel’s chips. The smaller of the two took a brief look at the booty then turned and began patting him down when a third man entered the office. Smaller than the other two, his dark hair licked back and a pencil thin mustache gracing his upper lip, he looked like a caricature. 

“This him? Find anything?” the newcomer asked.

“Nope,” the first man answered, pointing with his chin toward the items from Illya’s pocket. “He’s clean.”

The man pawed through the change, pocketknife, comb, and other numerous items scattered upon the table. He picked up the wallet and checked the ID. Illya was silent throughout all this and grateful that Napoleon had insisted they not carry their weapons or U.N.C.L.E. identification. At the time he’d thought it a stupid call, but all things considered it might have been worse for him had he been caught with a gun.

“Kuryakin, huh,” the man grunted. He tossed Illya’s identification back on the table. “Name’s Cardoza…Tony Cardoza. Head of the Sands’ Casino Security. You seemed to be having some run of luck out there.” He canted his head toward the door. “We had ta make sure you weren’t cheating.”

Illya was vastly relieved. “Of course. Let me assure you, I was not trying to win.”

Cardoza looked at him in disbelief. He turned to his two employees. “Take care of him.”

***

An hour later Illya was back inside the casino, his twenty thousand dollars winnings bulging inside his wallet. Much to his relief, Tony’s idea of taking care of him did not include violence. Illya not only had his winnings but also a room at the hotel’s expense. Things were looking up. 

Napoleon was sitting at the blackjack table, a pile of chips in front of him, and not surprisingly, a stunning brunette sitting in the chair next to him. Illya rolled his eyes, he should have known. Find the prettiest girl in the room and you would find Napoleon. Shaking his head, Illya headed toward him. Napoleon leaned over, whispering something into the young lady’s ear. Illya had to admit she was the most attractive woman in the room. Her makeup was flawless, her hair had every strand in place. Whatever Napoleon had said had her blushing prettily and she looked away, her hand playing with the scarf around her neck. Illya’s eyes squinted. Surely, he hadn’t seen what he thought he saw. 

Tapping Napoleon on the shoulder, he leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Napoleon, might I have a moment of your time?” 

Napoleon sent an irritated glance his way. “Can it wait?”

Illya looked at the young lady next to his partner. He debated on letting his partner find out the truth on his own. “Ummm. I think not.”

Napoleon sighed. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart. Watch my chips for me?” he asked, giving her a wink.

“What is it?” Napoleon asked crossly, his eyes still on his companion.

“Ummm. I don’t quite know how to say this,” Illya said. Napoleon turned to him, his expression stating plainly that he should just say it. “You do know the object of your attention has an Adam’s apple.”

Napoleon’s jaw dropped. He cast a quick glance back at the woman with whom he had been contemplating spending some intimate time. “No!” Napoleon looked again. She returned his look, fluttering her eyelashes coyly, her hand twirling her scarf. Illya strove to keep a smile off his face, though he was unable keep the twinkle out of his eyes. Napoleon’s complexion looked positively pasty. Illya grinned as Napoleon rushed to pick up his winnings, muttered a hasty ‘adieu’ to the young ‘lady’ and beat an even hastier retreat. 

The thought of Napoleon making a pass at a guy was just too humorous. Illya had to admit that it was easy to see how Napoleon had made such a mistake. The guy did not look like a guy dressing as a woman. 

Napoleon had a grip on his arm, turning him away from the sight. “Let’s get out of here,” he growled. “I need to check us in.”

Illya pulled out a set of room keys, waving them in Napoleon’s face, then led the way to the elevator. Once inside he moved to the back. Try as he might he could no longer hold back his laughter. Napoleon glowered at him, but before long, he, too, was laughing hysterically. Soon they were falling over each other, their laughter ringing in the enclosed space. 

The elevator chimed, signaling that the elevator would soon stop to allow someone else to enter. By the time the door opened, the couple entering saw only two serious men, one contemplating the condition of his nails, the other the toe of his shoe rather than two raving lunatics. 

When the couple finally got out, the two agents couldn’t resist. They burst out laughing once again. They got out on the second floor from the top. 

“I can’t believe I was so stupid,” Napoleon said as they walked down the hallway. 

“It could happen to anyone,” Illya said with a smile, stopping at one of the doors. “Well, almost anyone.”

Using the key, Illya opened the door and moved aside to let Napoleon enter. The room opened up to two double beds covered with gaudy, brightly covered bedspreads. Their suitcases were already inside.

“Not much, is it,” Napoleon remarked, disgruntled. 

“At least it has a full bath,” Illya called from his inspection of the room in question. He plopped down on one of the beds. “I admit it’s not the best, but then it is not costing us anything either.” 

“How did you manage that?” Napoleon asked. 

“I was accused of cheating.” Illya declared, taking a wad of bills from his wallet. “It was very strange. No matter how hard I tried …I could not lose,” he mused. “So this is… how you say it? On the house.”

“Nice,” Napoleon murmured as he riffled through the bills. First on the agenda, however, was checking out the room for bugs and other forms of mayhem. 

“I assume you will want to do some more gambling? Yes?” Illya said as he checked under the beds.

Napoleon shuddered, remembering his close call and not wanting to run into her…or was it him, again. “I think I’ll pass for the moment.” While searching the desk, he found and began leafing through a brochure of the hotel’s amenities. “They have a show here. Want to take it in? We could go out and get something to eat or order from room service?”

Illya popped off the bed and began opening his suitcase. “Room service,” he requested as he rummaged through the bag. “I intend to take a nice long soak.”

Napoleon snorted as he picked up the phone.

***

The next two days were not as enjoyable as they could have been, at least not from Napoleon’s point of view. He kept expecting someone to pop up and contact them. Napoleon had been hoping that once Illya was feeling better they could have a bit of fun. Unfortunately, Napoleon’s first venture in that area had proven unsuccessful. There was also the fear that he’d make the same mistake he’d made the first day and pick up someone not quite kosher. That made him leery and he was continually checking to see if prospective female companions had Adam’s apples. It took the joy out of the hunt.

It was strange to find his ability in that area thwarting him. Even stranger, when he thought about how it was not from being rejected that his problems had started, but by his being coveted. Maybe he was just getting older.

Illya’s choice of pursuits was not the same as Napoleon’s. He would rather be out and about exploring the area during the day, while Napoleon was more interested in the night-life, shows, and of course, gambling. 

Even knowing from experience of Napoleon’s continuous shortage of funds, Illya decided to hand over his winnings with the instruction that he lose it all. So far it had caused him nothing but trouble. It was a request that Napoleon had thought he would have no problem with at all. 

Solo’s luck appeared to be in full force. He had a run at the roulette table. He couldn’t seem to lose to save his soul. Then he tried craps. He finally switched to blackjack and found if he deliberately tried he could lose, but it didn’t feel right. He felt foolish trying to lose and Napoleon Solo was no fool.

On his way back to the room to tell Illya that if he wanted to get rid of his winnings he was going to have to do it himself, he happened to pass a lounge that sported a closed sign. The sound of a familiar voice interrupted his musing.

“Ginger Baby, come over here. Okay…you’re center stage. The lights are on you…lights…let’s have some lights, here”

His curiosity up, Napoleon slipped into the room. There onstage was the person whose voice Napoleon had recognized and an equally familiar fantastically shaped blonde.

“Now, sweetheart, I want you to take that beautiful body of yours and shimmy. Think you can do that?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Veblen,” the beautiful blonde said breathily, fluttering her thickly mascaraed eyes. Should I sing now?”

There was a pained look on Veblen’s face and he turned away to see Napoleon standing in the doorway. Napoleon adjusted his tie, cleared his throat, and waved. Both Sheldon Veblen and Ginger LaVeer quickly left the stage heading his way.

Veblen was on him, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Solo, right? What brings you to Vegas? Anything filmable? Where’s your friend…the one with the funny hair…the green spots?” 

“Weren’t you expecting us?” Napoleon got in a question of his own; Veblen was asking questions faster than Napoleon could answer them.

“Should I have been?” Veblen frowned. Motion from the stage distracted him and suddenly he was rushing back on stage. “No…no. Don’t move a thing…”

His mouth open, Napoleon turned to the original dumb blonde. She flashed him her best smile and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“We’re doing a show,” she gushed.

“I see that, Miss LaVeer.” Napoleon smiled back. 

“Ginger,” she corrected, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly.

“Ginger,” Napoleon agreed readily. “Why?”

“Mr. Veblen said it would be perfect vehicle for me until he can come across another movie idea. To keep my name in the public eye. He’s directing it. He’s a genius, you know.”

Napoleon nodded as if he understood. Veblen was back. “It’s been good to see you. Here’s two tickets to tonight’s opening. Bring your friend.” He pushed the tickets into Napoleon’s hand as he got a firm grip on his arm, practically pushing him out the door.

***

“I refuse.” Illya was adamant. Napoleon had returned to the room showing him the tickets and explaining about his meeting with the two former innocents. They both had reason to remember the movie producer, Sheldon Veblen, whose film, a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, was almost used to destroy Los Angeles. Fortunately, the bomb had turned out to be a stink bomb which had left Illya smelling awful for days.

“Come on, Illya,” Napoleon cajoled. “I even purchased you a new tux.”

“With whose money?” Illya demanded to know, as if he didn’t already know. “Why can’t we go see Sammy Davis, Frank Sinatra, or Bill Dana?”

“Are they even playing? Besides what did you want me to tell Ginger?” Napoleon asked, ignoring the question. “That we couldn’t make it to see her performance?”

Illya snorted, but gave in at the end.

The lighting was dim and they were just seated when the sounds of a drum followed by the clapping of hands resonated from behind the curtain. Next, they heard someone strumming a tune that sounded vaguely Russian on a balalaika. Lights went up and the stage curtain opened. The source of the clapping was revealed as two rows of people, six men dressed as Cossacks and six women wearing red silk Russian shirts, belted in the middle, and thigh high boots with four-inch heels pranced out on the stage. The men lined up at the back, their arms crossed and out in front, as they squatted, shouting "Hey, hey, hey!" as they began dancing. The women lined up in front, twirling. 

( you might want to listen to the song as you read http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=okw9F-W0N6Y&feature=fvst)

The men sang on, 

There lived a certain man in Russia long time ago.

The women then sang, He was big and strong, in his eyes a flame would glow.

Men:

Most people looked at him with terror and with fear

Women:

But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear  
He could preach the bible like a preacher  
Full of ecstasy and fire  
But he also was the kind of teacher  
Women would desire

RA RA RASPUTIN (clap, clap, clap)  
Lover of the Russian queen  
There was a cat that really was gone  
RA RA RASPUTIN (clap, clap, clap)  
Russia's greatest love machine  
It was a shame how he carried on

Napoleon’s mouth was open and he glanced over at Illya. His partner’s face held a look that could only be described as incensed. The group on-stage was dancing to the music and a blonde-haired woman twirled out onto the stage. Her outfit consisted of a black Russian style tunic, adorned with sequins at the neck and sleeves, dark stockings, and boots with four-inch heels. Ginger. Illya started to rise, his intention to leave clear, but Napoleon got a grip on his arm, pulling him back down.

Then Ginger began singing, her voice slightly off-key and just a little flat.

He ruled the Russian land and never mind the czar  
But the kasachok he danced really wunderbar  
In all affairs of state he was the man to please  
But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze  
For the queen he was no wheeler dealer  
Though she'd heard the things he'd done  
She believed he was a holy healer  
Who would heal her son

Chorus:

RA RA RASPUTIN (clap, clap, clap)  
Lover of the Russian queen  
There was a cat that really was gone  
RA RA RASPUTIN (clap, clap, clap)  
Russia's greatest love machine  
It was a shame how he carried on

Ginger:

But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger  
for power became known to more and more people,  
the demands to do something about this outrageous  
man became louder and louder.

Men:

Hey, hey, hey.

They were once again dancing. Illya pulled on his dark glasses and turned away, deliberately not watching the stage.

Ginger:

"This man's just got to go!" declared his enemies  
But the ladies begged "Don't you try to do it, please"  
No doubt this Rasputin had lots of hidden charms  
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms  
Then one night some men of higher standing  
Set a trap, they're not to blame  
"Come to visit us" they kept demanding  
And he really came

Chorus:

RA RA RASPUTIN (clap, clap, clap)  
Lover of the Russian queen  
They put some poison into his wine  
RA RA RASPUTIN (clap, clap, clap)  
Russia's greatest love machine  
He drank it all and he said "I feel fine"

RA RA RASPUTIN(clap, clap, clap)  
Lover of the Russian queen  
They didn't quit, they wanted his head  
RA RA RASPUTIN(clap, clap, clap)  
Russia's greatest love machine  
And so they shot him till he was dead

Ginger once again took center stage. Slowly she sank sexily down and as she slowly arose, her voice breathily said. 

“Oh, those Russians...”

This was followed by the fluttering of eyelashes.

There was a smattering of applause to which Napoleon joined, albeit not enthusiastically. It was obvious to him that Illya had not enjoyed the show. The lead singer slipped from behind the curtain, and made her way to the floor, mingling her way through the tables toward them. 

“Hi, there,” she said throatily, as she sank into a vacant chair.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “Hello, yourself, Ginger.”

She turned to Illya a slight pout upon her face. “Didn’t you like our show?”

Illya looked at her and slowly took his glasses off. “It was…interesting. Tell me…ummm, Miss LaVeer. Ginger, what brings you to Las Vegas? Besides the obvious, of course.”

“Mr. Veblen. You remember Mr. Veblen?” Ginger said brightly, nodding in Illya’s direction. “He wrote the part for me. He said he got the idea from you.” 

Illya’s head dropped into his open hand.

“Didn’t you think I was good?” Ginger asked, her tone injured.

“Oh, yes. You were wonderful,” Napoleon lied. “Marvelous.”

“Thank you,” Ginger said modestly as she rose to leave. “I have to go now. We have our second show soon.”

Illya stopped her by grabbing her arm. “Don’t you have something for us?”

Ginger’s blue eyes widened in sincere puzzlement. “No. Should I?”

“Ahh…I guess not,” Napoleon turned puzzled eyes at Illya.

Ginger brightened. “Come back later and I’ll introduce you around backstage.” She leaned over and kissed each of them on the cheek then gave one last devastating smile before leaving. 

On the way back to the room, Napoleon asked, “You really didn’t expect her to have something for us?”

“Didn’t you?” Illya countered.

Napoleon admitted to himself that considering the previous encounters he had more or less expected upon finding Ginger performing here that she would be their contact.

“I’m wondering just who financed that little farce,” Illya grumbled darkly as they entered their room. 

***

Much to Illya’s disgust, they went back for the second show. It had not improved since the last showing. Napoleon stood up at the ending and politely clapped along with the rest of the audience while Illya stayed seated, pointedly ignoring the performance. Napoleon cocked his head toward the stage and when Illya refused, grabbed him by the arm, herding him toward the backstage. There was pandemonium back there.

“Help! Help!”

Illya gave up his reluctance long enough to follow Napoleon’s hurried dash toward the shrieking voice. Both men stopped short at the sight of a skimpily dressed Ginger LeVeer, standing in the midst of her ransacked room. 

Comforting her was Sheldon Veblen. “There, there, Ginger baby.”

“What happened?” Napoleon asked.

“Oh, it was just like in a movie,” Ginger turned her big blue eyes Napoleon’s way. “Two men broke in and…” then she turned back into Veblen’s arms and started crying again.

Illya ignored them as he went past them to enter the room and look around. 

“Miss LeVeer?” A messenger stood in the doorway holding out a large stuffed envelope. 

Illya reached out and took it. Opening it, he revealed another envelope addressed to Solo and Kuryakin. He tapped the address as he turned it so Napoleon too could see. 

“Thank you, Ginger,” Napoleon said snatching the envelope from Illya’s hand and setting a kiss upon her cheek.

It wasn’t until the two were in the elevator that Napoleon tore open the envelope. Inside was the expected piece of quilt and a postcard. Napoleon’s face held a disgruntled look as he stepped out the elevator.

“What is it?” Illya took the card from him.

Napoleon had stopped and was staring at the door to their room, which was currently open. Illya’s eyes followed his and he started forward to find out who had invaded their room. Napoleon pocketed the quilt piece as he grabbed at Illya’s arm, keeping him from moving.

“Retreat is the better form of valor,” Napoleon spoke, turning and heading toward the stairs.

“Huh,” Illya grumbled as they fled down the emergency stairs. “What about our luggage?”

“What’s more important your life or your luggage?” Napoleon tossed over his shoulder. "We don't have our guns, remember?"

“Well, when you put it that way,” Illya conceded. “What about the money?”

Napoleon opened the door at the bottom, the stairwell door opened into the casino. He shut his eyes to block the memory. Illya’s winnings, plus his own were with the luggage. With a sigh of regret, Napoleon looked around the doorframe, making sure there were no enemy agents hanging about. 

Signaling the all clear, the two made a mad dash though the casino. As they passed the slot machines, for some inapplicable reason every machine started cashing in! Soon the hotel security was after them as well. 

Napoleon, breathing heavily, paused as they got closer to the RV. By weaving through the parking area, they had managed to elude their chasers. 

“What the hell was that all about?” Illya wanted to know as he quickly worked at shutting down the alarm, unlocked the door, and the two slid inside. Napoleon looked through one of the windows, carefully keeping out of sight. A signal light on the alarm blinked. 

Illya frowned as Napoleon pulled out his detector and started going over the place. When he moved closer to Illya, the signal sounded louder. Napoleon ran it over Illya’s clothing, much to Illya’s disapproval, stopping at Illya’s right front pants pocket when the beeping went out of control. Illya reached into his pocket and pulled all the items out. Napoleon ran the detector over them. The casino chip that had led them here was the one item registering on the meter. 

Illya snatched it up. He disappeared into the sleeping area coming back with a jeweler’s eye-glass. After studying the chip closely, he set it down. “I should have known. This is the reason I could not lose.”


	10. Hard Times in Arizona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossing Arizona to get to San Antonio problems arise. No money and a broken air conditioner forces them to get jobs.

“This is not my fault,” Napoleon all but shouted for what felt like the tenth time. “Damn it, Illya, I’m not telling you again.” 

He turned and stalked angrily back to the rear of the RV in his underwear. It…was…not… his…fault. Not the fact that they had to leave Illya’s cash back in the room, especially since Illya had considered it ill-gotten gain. The fact that the clue they’d been given led them across Arizona and New Mexico and on to the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas during the hottest days of the year. Nor the fact that the RV’s air-conditioner broke down halfway across Arizona, and New Mexico making the inside a virtual oven and the money would have come in handy. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that the one RV dealer they’d stopped at refused to accept their U.N.C.L.E. credit card.

Nor did he see where he could be blamed for the fact that when they stopped to replace the clothing they’d had to leave behind that their credit cards had not been honored. 

Illya, who was driving, slammed on the brakes, causing Napoleon to fall over backwards and roll end over end back to the front of the vehicle.

Napoleon lay flat upon his back as Illya looked down on him from above.

“Okay, so maybe it’s not all your fault,” Illya conceded. “What do you propose to do about it?”

Napoleon growled a low growl and raised an arm. “First, could you help me up…please?”

Illya walked around Napoleon and with the greatest reluctance reached down to pull him up.

“Thank you.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in Napoleon’s voice as he used one hand to push himself up while being levered up by the other with Illya’s help. 

“It’s a good thing I filled up this monstrosity before we left,” Illya snapped.

As he ran his hand through his sweaty hair, Napoleon had to admit it was a streak of luck. He started to sit down, but jumped up as he felt heat from the plastic seat. Illya, who had been picking up the items that had scattered during his mad brake slamming, tossed over a towel. 

Laying the towel down, Napoleon sat down gingerly, careful not to lean against the seat back. Running his hand across the back of his neck, he glared at the miserable pile of quilt pieces that had started this mess and mentally reviewed the past twenty-four hours. 

He didn’t see anyway they could have avoided their mad-dash back to the RV. Halfway down the stairs, the door above them opened and bullets sprayed down upon them. Whoever had ransacked Ginger’s room undoubtedly had no qualms about inflicting serious damage since there was no one else around to scare them off. In Napoleon’s professional opinion, without their guns, he and Illya would have been mincemeat. They were good, but not that good. 

Napoleon had slipped into the driver’s seat, quickly warming up the engine while Illya retrieved their weapons from the back. Their escape, however, had not gone unnoticed. The bad guys, whoever they were, leapt into a dark sedan and gave chase. 

The two spies watched as the car following behind them shot randomly, their bullets bouncing off the sides of the bulletproof RV. Once they cleared the populated areas and there were few vehicles around, Illya worked his magic with the weapons system. An evil grin graced his face as he targeted their followers then hit the button, sending a missile at the offending car. They didn’t even bother stopping to check for survivors. 

Soon after that, the bickering started. Little by little, they noticed that the air-conditioning no longer worked. It wasn’t a problem as long as they drove during the night, but once the sun came up, it grew unbearable. They stood it as long as they could before stopping in Phoenix. Napoleon had given in and they had used the GPS to locate an RV dealer. The RV dealer was more then willing to help, but the replacement part would take a week to arrive. That decided upon, they stopped at a nearby department store to replenish the items they had to leave behind. It was then they found that their credit cards were declined and had managed to scrape together enough cash to pay for their purchases.

The same thing happened when they returned to the RV dealer. He was sorry, but without payment, he refused to order the part. When Napoleon suggested contacting the local office, even Illya was willing. They tried their communicators, with no results. Even a conventional phone call produced no results. They tried calling the New York Office collect. Nothing. They were cut off.

“We drive at night and rest during the day,” Napoleon decided.

Illya snorted. “And swelter as we sleep. It gets like a sauna in here during the day.”

“Well, you come up with something better,” Napoleon shot back. When Illya refused to respond, Napoleon glowered at the quilt pieces in front of him. “It’s all the fault of these damn quilt pieces,” he muttered.

The disgruntled look faded from Illya’s face to be replaced by a small smile. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Have you come up with anything yet?” Illya asked, nodding at the grouping that Napoleon was busy arranging and rearranging.

“No.” Napoleon closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t make any sense, no matter which way I try to do it. If I didn’t know better, I would think someone doesn’t like us.”

For the first time in days, Illya laughed aloud. 

Napoleon glared at him. “Here, you try it,” he grumbled as he got up and went to the sink, wetting a cloth to wipe his face and neck.

Illya took his place, rearranging a piece here and a piece there. He shook his head. “We are traveling in a hot box. We are out of cash. Have no credit and will soon be running out of food.”

“That about sums it up,” Napoleon agreed. He slid into the driver’s seat. “Something’s bound to come up.” 

“Are you telling me the infamous Solo luck has deserted you?” Illya’s eyebrows were hidden by his bangs.

Napoleon grunted. “Let’s just say it’s on the fritz.” It all seemed to have started on his last assignment. Young girls trying to get into his pants, ladies his age ignoring him. If only he were not a gentleman. And then, there were those stupid quilt pieces.

They drove through the night; as the early morning hours arose, Solo’s luck appeared back in force. Just a little ways outside of Las Cruces, nestled between the majestic Organ Mountains and the meandering Rio Grande, Napoleon found a perfect parking space tucked away not too far from a RV park that they, at the present time, could not afford.

Napoleon had an idea that he planned to put into practice. Going through the items still in his possession, he came up with a couple of pairs of solid gold cuff links and two spare watches. Illya, unfortunately, didn’t have anything other than his watch to contribute. Illya suggested they use some of the arsenal hidden away, but Napoleon vetoed it, not wanting to bring that sort of attention to themselves. After cleaning up and putting on fresh clothing, the two walked through the streets of Las Cruces until they came to a pawnshop. 

Illya looked around the shop while Napoleon dealt with the owner. The proprietor was driving a hard bargain, only wanting to give a couple of hundred for the booty. 

“Tell you what, I’ll give you another hundred for the ring,” the bald, rotund man nodded at Napoleon’s pinky ring as he chewed on the stem of his cigar.

Napoleon twirled the ring on his finger, reluctant to part with it. He sent a quick glance to his partner, knowing that two hundred and fifty dollars would have pay for the part they needed and feed Illya, though not for long with his appetite. Finally, he nodded, let out a sigh of regret, twisted the ring off his finger, and added to the items already on display.

The owner started counting out the cash while Napoleon kept his eye on Illya, hoping his partner appreciated his sacrifice. 

“You seem like a nice kid.”

Napoleon looked around wondering just who the proprietor was talking to.

“Give you another couple hundred for a few hours with Blondie there.” 

Napoleon’s mouth hung open. What the hell was the man talking about? Napoleon was intensely puzzled. A couple of hours to do what?

The older man wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Napoleon grabbed the money quickly while making a disgusted face, “Some other time, perhaps,” he said hurriedly, gathering Illya and leaving at a fast pace.

“What’s wrong?” Illya asked, trying to break away from the grip Napoleon had on his upper arm.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Napoleon said as he hustled Illya down the road.

It didn’t take long to part with a good portion of their money. Food took up a chunk but investing in a rotary fan was top of the list. Illya’s grumbling upon finding out how little Napoleon had managed to get had Napoleon regretting not taking the man up on his offer out of spite… for all of three seconds. Then he felt guilty about even thinking about it. 

After a brief nap, with the fan running to keep things fairly cool, the two sat at the dining table. Napoleon studied the postcard once again while Illya read the local paper. 

“Hey, look at this,” Illya said shoving the newspaper in Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon batted the paper away. “Look at what?”

“This,” Illya insisted. 

Napoleon checked the top of the paper – help wanted. The item Illya was pointing out was an advertisement for one of the local Country Clubs. It appeared they were in temporary need of a bartender and pool man.

“Surely you’re not suggesting…” Napoleon asked in disbelief.

“Why not?” Illya asked enthusiastically. “We need money, they need help.”

“What about getting to San Antonio?” Napoleon asked.

“There is nothing on that card that says when we have to be there,” Illya pointed out.

That was how the two ended up spending two weeks working at the Las Cruces Country Club. The Club boasted a sixteen-hole golf course and the best cuisine in town. It was a good thing the club was desperate, their bartender having run away with the pool guy or they might not have gotten the jobs, especially with their lack of references. The pay was not great, just adequate. They were told tips would help compensate and management even went so far as to include their meals. Management also graciously allowed them to park the RV at the back of the club, just so long as they didn’t put it to any unauthorized use. What type of use that meant was never actually stated.

Napoleon, who was assigned the night shift in the bar, had the harder of the two jobs. His first night wasn’t difficult; his mixology skills unchallenged as male members of the club ordered basic drinks. The challenge came when the female population, finding the club’s new bartender not only good looking, but charming as well, began ordering exotic drinks. Using his considerable charm, he managed to bluff his way through with the aid of a book called The Bartender's Guide that he'd found under the counter. 

Illya’s work took part during the early morning hours before the club opened. Keeping the Olympic size pool clean was a skill he’d picked up on a previous assignment. Once that was done, his days were usually free. The first night of their employment, Illya decided to accompany his partner to the bar, figuring he would have some fun at Napoleon’s expense. He expected Napoleon to be flustered and was very disappointed when Napoleon took to bartending like a duck to water. 

Growing bored, his eyes wandered around the room, finally settling on a baby grand piano off to one side. Leaving his seat, and the free peanuts behind, he wandered over, lifting the lid that covered the keyboard and using one finger tried out a few notes. The piano was in perfect tune and he sat down, his fingers wandering across the keyboard playing a simple scale, before slipping into a simple melody, showing off an accomplishment that even Napoleon hadn’t been aware of. Soon there were guest surrounding him, encouraging his playing. The next day he found his duties expanding to include nightly concerts.

Illya lost himself in the music. The plopping of a glass on the piano top broke through his reverie. He looked over the top of his dark glasses. “What is this?”

“It’s a drink.” Napoleon’s dark eyes glittered with amusement in the darkened room and he tried vainly to suppress a grin.

“I did not order anything,” Illya reminded him as he continued to play.

“True,” Napoleon agreed, canting his head to one side toward the bar. “The young lady did.”

Illya looked in the direction Napoleon indicated. A young lady, looking all of sixteen, sat on a bar stool next to another young teenager, smiling and waving flirtatiously. Picking up the glass and with a sickly smile on his face, he saluted her. “Is she even old enough to drink?”

“Not really,” Napoleon agreed cheerfully. “She is old enough to pay, however. Big tipper, too.”

Illya took a sip and grimaced. “Why do people assume that because I am Russian I like vodka?”

“I’ve seen you drink vodka before.” Napoleon frowned.

“That does not mean I like it,” Illya grouched out of the side of his mouth.

Napoleon laughed out loud as he went back to behind the bar.

The following day, Illya was up early and out by the pool, skimming.

The gate opened, admitting the young girl from the night before dressed in the skimpiest of bathing suits. 

Illya stopped skimming. “I’m sorry. The pool is not open right now.”

She sank seductively in a lounge chair, spoiling it all by giggling. “That’s okay. I’ll just sit here and sunbathe.”

Illya went back to cleaning the pool.

“You look nice in white.” The girl tilted her head coyly as she twirled her ponytail around her finger. “Sexy.”

Illya looked down at his white dungarees and t-shirt. “Thank you,” he said doubtfully and proceeded to ignore her.

“My name is Clarice. What’s yours?” the girl asked boldly.

“Illya.” He stopped his work and looked at her. “Just how old are you?”

She put a pair of sunglasses on. “Eighteen,” she said haughtily. Illya gave her a questioning look and she squirmed. “Okay…seventeen.”

Illya’s eyebrows went up.

“In three months,” Clarice admitted.

Illya shook his head and went back to doing his job.

After a while, the young girl shifted. “Pooh, you’re no fun,” she pouted. “The new bartender is more fun than you.” She got up and made to leave.

“Excuse me,” Illya called after her, his curiosity up. When she turned back he asked, “Why do you say that?”

She slung her towel over her shoulder. “After closing, he was out here skinny dipping.”

Illya’s mouth dropped open. He dropped the skimmer and raced to the RV. He slipped in, making no effort to be quiet. Poking Napoleon awake, he hissed, “What were you thinking?”

“Huh?” Napoleon rolled over and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to make sense of Illya’s question.

A knock at the RV door and a shout of, “Hey, Kuryakin! The boss says you gotta finish cleaning the pool!” interrupted his talk with Napoleon. 

“I’ll be right there,” Illya shouted back. He growled his exasperation and hurried back to the pool.

Napoleon, having no idea what Illya was carrying on about, quickly threw on some clothing and followed his partner, the gravel playing hell on his bare feet. In his haste, he’d dressed in the pants he’d worn the night before and his t-shirt, not taking time for shoes or to comb his hair.

“What are you talking about?” Napoleon asked when he caught up with Illya inside the pool area.

A giggle and a head ducking behind the fence brought a curse from the Russian’s lips. “I think we’ve been had.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Napoleon asked, exasperated, his eyes following the path Illya’s had taken and seeing nothing.

“I am sorry, my friend. I was informed, wrongly it seems, that you were skinny dipping last night,” Illya explained, realizing how far fetched the idea was as he went back to skimming debris from the pool. Napoleon’s face turned red and suddenly Illya wasn’t so sure anymore. “Napoleon! She’s only sixteen!”

Napoleon was completely in the dark. “Who’s only sixteen?” 

Before Illya could respond, Napoleon found himself suddenly pushed headfirst into the pool. Surfacing, he shook the water from his face and got his breath back. 

“Napoleon Solo! How dare you! Telling everyone we went skinny dipping!” The blonde waitress, his buxomly swimming companion from the wee hours of the morning, her feet firmly planted apart, stood glaring down upon him. She grabbed a pillow from one of the lounge chairs and threw it at his head, before turning and stomping angrily away.

Another giggle floated into the area.

Illya stooped at the side of the pool and held out his hand. “Oops, it appears I was misinformed.”

Napoleon sputtered, water spewing from his mouth. He reached up, gripped Illya’s helping hand and pulled him in. 

The giggles turned into outright laughter. The two swam to the side of the pool, hanging onto the edge. Pulling themselves out of the pool, Illya felt constrained to comment, “You and your sixteen year olds.” The remark meant to be flippant earned Illya another ducking. When he finally came back up for air, Napoleon was bent over the edge looking down upon him.

“My sixteen year olds? It seems to me this one is yours, Tovarisch,” Napoleon growled, so incensed was he by the comment. Without offering even so much as a helping hand, Napoleon stormed off, dripping water with each step.

Another bout of laughter brought Illya’s attention back to the young girl. After glaring at young Clarice’s innocent face, Illya removed himself once more from the water and returned to his job of keeping the pool clean. Illya was not in a playful mood, and what to him appeared to be an unprovoked attack worried him. Something was going on with his partner and having a talk with Napoleon would be the next thing on his agenda.

Napoleon was not in the RV when Illya finished his morning chore and proved unreachable for the rest of the day. That evening, however, when the two came together in the bar, Napoleon apologized and seemed more himself. The two exchanged glances, silently agreeing that there would be no more romantic entanglements during their stay. 

Attendance of club functions picked up enormously as the female members learned of the talented new employees. The older matrons seemed to gravitate toward Napoleon, much to Illya’s amusement, while the younger element, mainly teenagers, were constantly hanging near wherever he happened to be.

The management was so pleased with them that it was with great regret that two weeks later, when their female bartender, the manager’s sister, returned with her new husband, the pool guy, they were forced to let Napoleon and Illya go. By this time the two men had managed to accumulate enough money to effect repairs on the RV. With money in their pockets and the RV repaired, the two reluctantly pushed on to their next destination. San Antonio.

***

“There is something strange about all this. You realize, of course, that we could have taken one of the small U.N.C.L.E. jets and accomplished the same thing,” Illya called over his shoulder as he drove down the highway.

“I believe that you have brought that up a time or two.” Napoleon snorted from his relaxed position at the dining table. He had been thinking the same thing from the very beginning. Their brief stint at the Country Club had rejuvenated him and he was ready to move on and wrap up this assignment. “Tired of driving?” Then to change the subject, he added, “I wasn’t aware you played the piano so well.”

Now it was Illya’s turn to snort. “You know I play the horn, why would I not play the piano? If you’re interested, I also play the guitar.”

Napoleon smiled; he knew about the guitar. In fact, he had a surprise for Illya back in New York. A 1901 00-42 Martin in pristine condition. He hadn’t decided when to give it to Illya, though – either for Illya’s birthday, for Christmas, or better yet, on his own birthday as a parting gift. Seven years of partnership ending all because he, Napoleon Solo would soon turn forty, the mandatory retirement age for working in the field. Such a waste.

“How far are we?” Illya asked, having no idea what was going through his partner’s head.

Napoleon picked up the map, did some rough calculations. “Oh, I’d say we have twenty more miles to go.”


	11. Things Get Hotter in San Antonio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money turns out to be a problem. Seems they are assumed dead and their bank accounts frozen.

Getting into San Antonio was more problematic then either agent had anticipated. Quite a few of the streets were one way and the huge vehicle they were driving made maneuvering rather difficult and not a little nerve-wracking. It was just by chance that they found the information center. Once again Illya gravitated toward the brochures, while Napoleon charmed the girl behind the counter.

Waiting outside, Illya put on his dark glasses and sifted through the brochures he had picked up. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a familiar figure. Before he could follow it up Napoleon appeared, with a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he folded a piece of paper and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Learn anything interesting?” Illya asked as he stepped into line with Napoleon.

“Hmm. Oh, yes. Found a nice place to park the RV, directions to the local branch of my bank in New York…”

“And her phone number.” Illya finished for him. “So where do we start?”

“The bank.”

Illya opted to wait outside while Napoleon entered the bank. Behind his dark glasses, he watched as people walked by. Quite a few of them entered the building across the street. Curious, Illya crossed the busy street, never noticing that he was being followed.

When he pushed open the door, Illya was surprised and delighted to find himself in a diner. He sat down at the counter and plucked a menu from between the napkin holder and ketchup bottle. 

"Hiya, honey. Whatcha want?"

Illya looked up at the overly made-up face under frizzy hair. The waitress' pink uniform, with its crisp white apron, had a nametag that read Bertha. He looked back down at the grease-covered menu and pointed to an item. "I'll have this, please."

"Good choice, sweetie," she said, then called over her shoulder. “One blue plate special, Charlie."

While waiting for his meal, Illya spread out the brochures he had procured. As he studied them, the waitress set down his meal without a word. The person sitting next to Illya got up, leaving his paper on the counter top and Illya could not resist looking at it as he ate.

He was just perusing an interesting article when a hand clamped his left shoulder. His eyes traveled from the hand to the face of his disgruntled partner. "I take it things did not go well."

Napoleon sat on the stool next to him, a growling sound rising in his throat. 

"Is there anything I can get you, sir?"

Napoleon looked up into the loveliest of Hispanic faces. The young waitress' dark eyes smiled doe-like upon him. Napoleon's frown did a one-eighty degree turn. "Coffee, please?"

Illya rolled his eyes. "Take a look at this," he said as he folded the newspaper in quarters and slid it over to Napoleon.

Napoleon dragged his eyes away from the waitress long enough to let his eyes roam the page. There in the upper right hand corner was a small piece. 

'Silver RV found crashed in a gully southeast of Las Vegas, the unidentified remains of two male occupants found burnt beyond recognition. Though classified as an accident, the authorities continue to investigate.'

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "You don't suppose...?"

Illya shrugged. "It would explain quite a bit of our problems."

With a sigh, Napoleon got off his stool and tossed the paper down. "Let's go."

To his credit, Illya did not argue; after wiping his mouth, he tossed a polite "Thank you" to the waitress as well as enough cash to pay for his meal before following Napoleon out into the hot sun.

"It explains what I learned at the bank," Napoleon said, looking both ways before crossing the street.

"And that was?" Illya asked.

Napoleon let out a deep breath. "All my assets have been frozen. I assume yours have as well."

"How unfortunate for us. Do you think Mr. Waverly is trying to tell us something?" Illya said lightly as he shook his head.

"I don't know, but we are definitely going to have to sit down and make some plans."

"What? No more playing it by ear?" Illya asked cheerfully, earning himself a frown.

Once back at the RV, Illya took charge of their remaining cash, being the more frugal of the two. He dealt with finding them a place to park the humongous vehicle away from prying eyes. He managed to hook up the electrical connection, but they would have to make do with whatever water was currently stored. That meant short showers, much to Napoleon's disgust.

They discussed the fact that everything had happened way too fast. Illya seemed to be taking the whole idea of them being pronounced dead as a challenge. It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last, was his way of thinking. And contacting U.N.C.L.E. and correcting their misconception was out of the question. "If we can't work around this, we might as well hang up our guns and move into an old spy's retirement home."

Napoleon grunted. "So what would you have us do? Carry on our assignment and pick up the next piece?" 

"Why not?" Illya shrugged. "It would be a good time to find out more about your Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone."

Napoleon was dumbfounded. "Since when have you been into Western history?"

"I think it behooves us all to know to know the history of our country," Illya said piously.

"You bastard," Napoleon uttered. "When did you become a citizen?"

"I'm not," Illya said complacently. A sly smile spread across his Nordic face. "Yet."

Napoleon didn't know whether to be surprised or not. Illya could be fiercely Russian at times. That got him to thinking. "Waverly knows?"

"Of course," Illya replied.

Napoleon nodded. "I am beginning to see a pattern."

"Don't be silly, Napoleon. Mr. Waverly would not make up an assignment just so I could see the sights!"

"No," Napoleon agreed. "But I wouldn't but it past him to kill two birds with one stone."

"I sincerely doubt it. But you are right about a pattern. Who do we know who resides in Texas? San Antonio in particular?" 

Napoleon thought long and hard. He shook his head. "Sorry, off hand I can't think of anyone. Maybe if I slept on it." 

Illya worried his lower lip and nodded his agreement.

***

Next morning Illya woke up and found not only Napoleon gone but all their money, too. He was debating searching for Napoleon when the man himself walked back into the RV, his arms laden with paper bags.

“Where have you been?” Illya asked with exasperation.

“Shopping for a few necessities,” Napoleon said as he dug into one bag and tossed a package of toilet paper Illya’s way.

“Oh. You didn’t spend all our money, I hope?” Illya grimaced as he looked over Napoleon’s shoulder, watching him pull out bread, peanut butter, jelly, and coffee. Money was tight but this was going overboard. "It's a good thing there is no entrance fee to the Alamo." 

The statement was wasted. Illya was talking to empty air, Napoleon and the toilet paper having disappeared. With barely concealed impatience, Illya awaited Napoleon's exit from the small bathroom. 

Though the RV was far from small, the two had shared it long enough for it to be claustrophobic. Illya opted to wait outside the big RV. It had rained the night before and leaning against the side of the RV, he inhaled the scent of freshness in the air all the while pondering on the fates. To be honest, he'd never, in all frankness, considered there might be something for him outside of U.N.C.L.E. True, he had dreams recently of retiring, perhaps to Seattle, but that was all they were. Now, thanks to happenstance, maybe they could be more than dreams. He could chuck it all. He would need a new identity, of course, and that would require money. The ability to earn money would require identification, also; his brow furrowed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He could easily forge a new ID not only for himself but for Napoleon. But did he want to? 

He was distracted when his sharp ears picked up on cursing coming from inside. Perhaps he should have warned Napoleon about the lack of hot water. Anyway, it was too nice a day to delve into psychological discussions with himself.

Napoleon soon made a disgruntled appearance, his hair damp, his face unshaven. A sportshirt covered by a windbreaker over chinos contrasted with Illya's short sleeve black turtleneck over black jeans. Not Napoleon's usual dapper self.

"Not planning on shaving today?" Illya asked, his eyes twinkling.

Napoleon growled, “Let's just get on with it."

They walked along in silence; Illya started to say something but Napoleon's grim expression forbade conversation. Perhaps he was worried about their lack of funds. Napoleon did like his creature comforts. 

“Sure you know where you're going?" Napoleon asked as they stopped at a corner before crossing a street. They had gone maybe half a dozen blocks.

Illya snorted. A navigator Napoleon was not. He glanced up at the myriad of signs that lined the street, each one pointing to a different attraction within walking distance that downtown San Antonio had to offer. There was the Convention Center that was the same direction as the Alamo, Market Square back the way they had come, and LaVillita's, the first neighborhood. According to the brochures, it was a thriving village, offering original art by local and regional artists. As they didn't have any money, it was best to avoid that particular site. For some reason, the central library was considered an area of interest according to the sign.

They had just passed a cathedral when a young boy rounded the corner and barreled into Napoleon, knocking him down. "Perdón, Señor," floated after him.

Illya was actually laughing as he helped Napoleon up. Napoleon scowled as he dusted himself off, then scowled even more as he realized his wallet was missing. "Our money!"

The two men exchanged looks then dashed after the kid, who was fast disappearing. They rounded a corner just in time to see the young fellow slipping down a stairway halfway down the street. Napoleon nodded, indicating that Illya circle the block, coming upon their little thief from the other direction.

Napoleon followed down the stairway, finding a walkway that ran along side a strip of water which flowed underneath the streets. The little imp was fast, weaving in and out, between tourists walking along the concrete path bordering the waterway. Quick as a wink, the young one was up another set of stairs. Napoleon was wondering where Illya was when he spotted the kid coming down another set of stairs on the other side of the stream with Illya close behind. He quickly reversed course, figuring if he was fast enough, he could take another set of stairs two at a time and cut the little devil off. Before he could get to the other side, the little rascal was off and running again. 

Just when Napoleon thought he had him trapped, the young fellow disappeared. The thief seemingly vanished into thin air. Meeting up with Illya, who was coming from the opposite direction, Napoleon asked, “Which way did he go?"

"He didn't get past me. Of that I am sure," Illya said as he looked around the immediate area for signs of the young man with no results. "About how old would you say he was?"

"Oh I don't know. Twelve? Maybe thirteen?" Napoleon, too, was circling the area looking for signs of the child. It was just as well they didn't have their guns with them. Running through the streets of San Antonio with guns drawn would have brought unwanted attention their way. As it was, people were looking at them strangely.

"Well, that does it," Illya said peevishly. "We are now officially broke. Again."

Napoleon rubbed his stubbled cheeks. Why was Illya glaring at him as if it were his fault? Before he could come up with a proper retort, a familiar beeping noise sounded from nearby. Cautiously, the two followed the sound coming from a little gap in the wall. Sitting atop a small box was Illya's wallet along with a silver pen-shaped communicator. 

Illya picked it up as he gathered up his wallet, going through it and being rather surprised that it was not empty. In fact, it appeared to have everything still in it. The communicator was still beeping and Napoleon indicated he should answer it.

Cautiously he pulled off the top, flipping it around and withdrew the antennae. "Kuryakin, here."

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly's dry voice sounded tinny over the speaker. "It's nice to hear that the rumors of your and Mr. Solo's demise were exaggerated."

A sigh of exasperation escaped Illya that apparently was not heard at the other end. "Was there something special you wanted...sir?" he asked his pen. The question seemed reasonable as it was Mr. Waverly who had insisted on radio silence to begin with.

"This has turned into a bigger kettle of fish than we anticipated. It's just as well that the two of you are thought dead. Gives you a little breathing room."

Illya's eyebrows quirked quizzically at that statement.

"Ah well, I suppose it was only to be expected." Waverly's sigh was audible. "The two of you will leave immediately for New Orleans." 

Silence issued as communication was cut in typical Waverly fashion. 

Illya slapped the antennae back in place before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He looked up to find Napoleon, having opened the box, waving a couple of stacks of bills at him along with another quilt piece. There went his hopes for seeing the Alamo.


	12. Next Stop New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final Chapter. Heading toward New Orleans, Napoleon and Illya are arrested and run into Suzy( The Zombi Affair) and Victor Marton (The Fox and Hounds Affair). While trying to escape Illya develops amnesia. Learn the reason for the quilt pieces. Have you guessed who is behind this? 
> 
> I had fun writing this, hope you had fun reading it.

“Just New Orleans? That’s it?” Napoleon asked begrudgingly from behind the wheel of the RV. Neither man had noticed the redhead with freckles nor their Hispanic thief exchanging high-fives on their way back to the vehicle.

“What did you expect? This is Mr. Waverly, after all.” Illya was busy counting the cash. There were four bundles of twenties. Five thousand in each bundle, he noted approvingly; all the better to not leave a paper trail. “I assume that he will let us know where when the time is right.”

“Shame we’re not going to be there during Mardi Gras,” Napoleon remarked as he struggled to keep from hitting the small car that pulled unexpectedly in front of him.

“Having been to New Orleans and seen Mardi Gras, I am not too enamored of going back. Too many people.” Illya proceeded to shuffle the bills, stacking them in two separate piles. Ten thousand for him and ten thousand for Napoleon. The quilt piece was already residing in the safe with the others.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, Napoleon raised an eyebrow, pondering on the statement. Before he could comment, his attention was diverted to the car in front of them, slamming on its brakes and switching lanes. He cursed, hitting the horn. Traffic was horrific and driving the huge vehicle during rush hour was no piece of cake. Napoleon scowled as he made his way through the streets. This should not be this difficult. He’d driven in traffic in some of the most exotic countries, where the driving laws were almost non-existent. Maybe it was a good thing he was getting close to retirement age from the field? 

Finally they were on the road to Louisiana and onward to New Orleans. After having traveled around the country, it should have been easy. Stretches of nothingness led into Houston during rush hour. Somewhere around the state line, the two exchanged places at the wheel and Napoleon, stretched out on the bench seat at the table, soon fell asleep.

Driving grew to be a bore, small towns with unpronounceable names passing in a wink of the eye. There was no need to stop for coffee or even to use the facilities. Should the need occur, the two agents could exchange places without even pulling over. That all changed when the shriek of a siren sounded in the air.

Napoleon jerked awake, pulled himself up and looked around for the source of the sound. “Wha…what’s that?”

Illya looked at the side mirror. Behind them was a police cruiser, its lights flashing. “There seems to be a police car behind us.”

“You’re not speeding, are you? You know what the cops are like in these small towns,” Napoleon asked as he moved into the passenger seat and checked the speedometer. “Maybe you had better pull over.”

“How can I? We are on a bridge, a very long bridge and there are only two lanes and he does not seem to want to pass us. Besides, the shoulder is too narrow to pull over.”

“Get off at the next exit and see if he follows,” Napoleon suggested.

It was almost five miles and halfway across the bridge before they came to an exit. In the meantime Napoleon was checking the map. “This must be the U.S. 190 Atchafalaya River Bridge. Geez, it really is long.”

Illya pulled the RV over to the side of the road once they had exited with the police car right behind them. He checked the side-view mirror as an overweight police officer, wearing dark glasses, got out and walked up to his window. 

“Where’s the fire, young fella?” he asked as he motioned for Illya to get out of the RV and moved to the other side where the door was located.

Napoleon gave Illya an incredulous look.

“I swear I was not going fast,” Illya insisted as he got out behind Napoleon.

“Clocked you going 50 in a 35 mile zone,” the officer informed him. 

“Impossible,” Illya snapped.

“You callin’ me a liar, boy?” The threat in the officer’s voice was audible as he spit chewing tobacco on the ground near Illya’s foot.

“No. Not at all…Officer Dupree?” Napoleon read the man’s nametag as he tried to act as peacemaker. “Let me do the talking.” Napoleon spoke out of the side of his mouth, while he elbowed Illya in the side. Turning back to Officer Dupree, he said, “My…ah…friend here is not from around here and he doesn’t know the highways.”

“That’s Sheriff to you, son, and ignorance ain’t no excuse, mister.” Napoleon’s intercession did not seem to appease the man. He only turned away when his fellow cop came over and whispered in his ear. “You, boy, where exactly are you from? Where’s your driver’s license?”

“Oh, brother,” Illya muttered to himself as he reached for his wallet. He pulled it out only to find it…empty. “Shit.”

Napoleon pulled out his wallet and found the same thing. This was impossible. When could it have happened?

Dupree pulled his gun. “Okay, you hippies, up against the vehicle.”

“Hippies,” Napoleon said indignantly as he turned around his arms raised in the air.

“It could be your scraggly beard and mustache,” Illya informed him.

The next thing the two agents knew they were in cuffs and being hauled off to what they were informed was the parish jail.

***

“Hey, what about our rights to a free phone call?” Napoleon called out between the bars of their jail cell.

“Just who are you planning to call?” Illya muttered as he searched the cell for bugs.

Sheriff Dupree turned back from the door. “Ya ain’t got no ID’s. No ID’s, no rights. Ya’ll could be foreign spies for all I know,” he said, not knowing how close to the truth he was.

Illya stood next to Napoleon, his face looking between the bars. “How about some food then?”

“Prisoners get fed once a day and mealtime’s already come and gone.” Dupree gave an evil laugh as he finally shut the steel door that separated the cells from the office area. “Hippies,” he muttered just loud enough for the two men to hear.

“It’s the beard, you know,” Illya answered the puzzled look that appeared on Napoleon’s face.

“At least I can grow one,” Napoleon shot back with a grin and received a snort in reply. Illya rarely suffered from five o’clock shadow. 

Illya would probably get a chance to grow one, though, was Napoleon’s thought. Napoleon didn’t think the sheriff was the kind to let them have access to razors, not that he’d planned on shaving anytime in the near future. His beard was starting to grow on him. 

According to the arrest report, they were being charged with vagrancy. Napoleon had a feeling that there was more to it than that. The deputy’s whispered conference with the sheriff had evoked his suspicions even before he found that they lacked identification. As it happened, the justice of the peace was out of town and wouldn’t be back for several days. 

It was a good thing the Sheriff had not searched the RV or they’d probably be in worse trouble. What if he had found the cash they had stashed in the safe with the quilt pieces or managed to locate the armament underneath the bed? 

Napoleon turned around, not surprised to find Illya plopped down on the lower bunk. His mouth twitched on one side as he turned his mind to trying to figure out how they were relieved of their identification. They hadn’t needed to stop for food. They had made good time. The only way it could have happened… His hands covered his eyes.

“What is it?” Illya asked, sitting up from his spot on the bunk.

“We stopped for gas,” Napoleon reminded him, hitting his head in exasperation. “We don’t deserve to be agents. We’re getting soft. Losing our wallets twice in the same day.”

“The contents at least,” Illya corrected him.

“There has got to be a way out of here.”

“If there is, I don’t see it. All our equipment is in the RV. Where is it, by the way?”

“Haven’t got the faintest idea. You could ask Deputy Dawg, I suppose.” 

“Deputy who?” Illya asked.

Napoleon climbed up on the upper bunk. He should have known better. Illya’s gasp of American television was limited at best. Lying down on his side, he looked down at his partner. “So, you want to play a game?”

“Which game?” Illya asked with interest. “Botticelli?”

“Hmmm. How about something different? A new game. Truth or Dare.”

Illya considered. “Sounds dangerous. How does one play?”

“Simple, I start by asking Truth or Dare. If you take truth, you have to answer a question truthfully or you can accept a dare.”

Illya turned over on his stomach. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Come on, try it,” Napoleon insisted. Here was a chance to find out a little more about his partner.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” Illya announced, turning back over.

Now it was Napoleon’s turn to be wary, but there wasn’t much he could do. Since he had suggested the game, he could only nod. 

Illya lay staring at the bottom of the bunk above him for a long while before deciding on a question. “Truth or dare. When was the first time you kissed a girl?”

Napoleon blew out a breath of relief. “Truth. Sara Jane Marshall in the fourth grade.”

He wasn’t worried. It was the truth. “Okay, Truth or dare. When was the first time you kissed a girl?” he responded in kind.

“Truth. Irena Prokek when I was four,” Illya said promptly, causing Napoleon’s mouth to drop open. This game was ridiculous, for all Napoleon knew he could be lying. “Good night, Napoleon.”

***

“Napoleon, Napoleon!” Illya hissed, tugging on the sleeve dangling over the side of the upper bunk.

“Wha…what?” came the groggy reply. Napoleon blinked the sleep out of his eyes, waking up and turning over to shade his eyes from the sunlight streaming through the bars next to his bed. Morning already?

“Whoever stole our identification knows we are U.N.C.L.E. agents! We have to get out of here!”

Napoleon looked over the side of his bunk with bleary eyes. “You just now are figuring that out? Any suggestions on how?”

Any further conversation was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock of the solid metal door. Illya moved off of his bunk while Napoleon jumped down from his, both taking defensive stances as the door opened.

The two spies watched as the deputy, named 'T. Breaux' according to his nametag, gestured behind him. “The sheriff’s taken pity on you. He ordered you breakfast.”

A familiar blonde, pushing a cart, entered the cell area. Napoleon and Illya exchanged surprised glances. Suzy!!

The blonde stopped, her eyes open wide as she noticed the two men on the other side of the cell door the deputy was currently standing in front of. The last they had seen of the pretty manicurist from Chickory, Louisiana was at the airport following their encounter with El Supremo while trying to rescue Delgado from his grasp during the affair Mr. Waverly had dubbed Operation Calypso. 

“Why, Mr. Solo!”

Fortunately, the phone ringing in the other room distracted the deputy, while Napoleon shook his head slightly at Suzy. The last thing he wanted to do was cause trouble for the young lady.

“Don’t you two cause any trouble, ya’ll hear?” Deputy Breaux said, pointing his finger in their direction as he left to answer the phone.

Suzy glanced over her shoulder timidly at the cop’s receding figure. Quickly she removed the plates from her cart and moved over to the cell. “Whatcha ya’ll doin’ here,” she asked as she slid one of the plates into the specially designed slot.

“It’s all a mistake. Somebody stole our IDs. Suzy, we thought you’d gone back to Chickory,” Napoleon said with some embarrassment as Illya took the plate and moved to sit on his bunk.

“Gosh, no. Chickory was where I was trying to escape from.” Suzy, rolling her eyes, informed Napoleon while she slid another plate through the slot for him. “Though this place ain’t much better,” she sighed. “You guys are in a heap of trouble; I heard the sheriff talking.”

“What was he saying, Suzy?” Napoleon asked quietly.

“Somethin’ about some guy comin’ to collect ya’ll. I didn’t know they were referring to you.”

Napoleon kept his eyes on the door, making sure the deputy was not returning. He didn’t notice Illya relieving him of the plate of food; all he knew was that it afforded him the opportunity to crook his finger and motion Suzy closer. “Suzy, we could use your help.”

Suzy glanced nervously behind her. “What is it you want me to do?”

Illya came forward and spoke up just then. “We need to escape. Could you manage to get the keys?” 

“How?” Suzy asked, her eyes opened wide with incredulity.

Napoleon looked up and down her appraisingly. “I’m sure you can think of something.”

She backed away, bumping into the returning deputy in her haste.

“Something wrong, Suzy?” he asked with concern. It was obvious that he was smitten with her.

“Ah…Tommy! You…er…sta startled me,” Suzy stuttered. In her nervous state, she moved around so that Deputy Breaux, who was a foot shorter then she, was between her and the cell. Over his head she spotted Illya mouthing ‘bring him closer this way’, while Napoleon motioned her nearer. 

Slowly, she moved forward, forcing the deputy backwards toward the cell. She apparently did the only thing she could think to do to the deputy. She kissed him. Leaving her eyes open, she caught sight of Napoleon reaching through the bars and relieving the guard of his keys. When she backed away, the deputy stayed, breathing heavily. 

“Sorry, Tommy,” she apologized. 

“Don’t be,” Deputy Breaux said after gulping, his expression dazed. With a silly grin plastered across his face, he maneuvered around Suzy, not taking his eyes off of her.

Napoleon let out a sigh of relief the minute he was out the door. “Good job, Suzy.”

“Is there anything else ya’ll need me to do?” she asked.

“No.”

Suzy nodded and left hurriedly. When Napoleon was satisfied that the deputy had not noticed that his keys were missing he turned back to attack his plate, only to find that both were now empty. 

***

They waited a half-hour, with Illya pacing impatiently, before using the key to make their escape. Napoleon wanted to be sure that Suzy was safely away so she wouldn’t be implicated. 

“Where to?” was Illya’s question once they had left the jail behind, having cautiously slipped past the now snoozing deputy.

Napoleon peeked out of the alleyway where they had currently taken refuge. Having never been in the area, he had no idea. “I’m hoping we can locate the RV.”

“And how do we do that?” Illya sniped.

Irritated, Napoleon glanced over his shoulder at his partner. Illya was standing there looking as calm and collected as could be, though his eyes told another story.

“How the hell should I know?” Napoleon snapped back. “Would you have rather waited until whichever Thrush agent showed up?”

“We should have asked Suzy to find out. That deputy seemed enamored of her.”

“And why don’t you come up with these ideas when they will do us some good?” 

Just then a car pulled up to the entrance, Suzy in the driver’s seat. Leaning out the window, she called, “I thought ya’ll never would get out here.”

At the other end of the alleyway, Sheriff Dupree and two other men raised an alarm. Shots rang out, slamming into the brick wall behind them. Napoleon and Illya hurriedly jumped into Suzy’s car as she peeled away from the curb, the wheels squealing.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Napoleon said.

“Do ya’ll even know how to find your way around?” 

“No,” Napoleon admitted from his seat beside her.

“They will be after us once they reach a car,” Illya warned looking out the back window. Then he turned and leaned forward over the front seat to talk to Napoleon. “Last time, she kept trying to leave us. What has changed?”

“Suzy?” Napoleon looked at her, wondering the same thing.

“Well.” Suzy glanced at him somewhat guiltily. “I was kinda hopin’ ya’ll would take me with you.”

Napoleon groaned. The last thing they needed now was an innocent to be caught in the crossfire. “Suzy, you could get hurt.”

“I… don’t… care. There is nothing to do here.” Her voice was whiney.

In the back seat, Illya covered his face as he fell against the seat muttering, “Women!”

Sighing, Napoleon thought she was right about one thing. They didn’t know the area. “Do you have any idea where our vehicle is?”

“It’s probably where ya’ll were arrested. The only wrecker in town broke down last week and hasn’t been repaired yet.”

“Then that probably means that it should still be at the exit,” Illya said with an exasperated sigh.

“I know where that is!” Suzy exclaimed. “There’s only one exit to this god-forsaken town.” 

A short time later Suzy pulled up at the exit off the interstate where the RV should have been. Only it wasn’t. Everyone climbed out of the car, looking all around in hopes of spotting the big silver vehicle.

“I thought you said the only wrecker was broken,” Napoleon accused.

“It is, it is,” Suzy insisted.

“Well, that does it. First we lost our money…again. And now we’ve lost our vehicle,” Illya said in disgust.

“We could always take the car,” Napoleon suggested.

“Not without me, you don’t,” Suzy stated. “Just where is it ya’ll are goin’?”

“They all want to hang on,” Napoleon said in an aside to Illya. “We need to get to New Orleans, Suzy.”

“New Orl’n’s!” Suzy exclaimed. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere’s near there!”

Napoleon and Illya exchanged puzzled glances. “Why not?”

“There’s zombies there.” Suzy’s eyes were wide with fright.

Illya turned away, shaking his head as he ran a hand over his face.

“Really, young lady. That is a slight exaggeration.” 

Both agents turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Victor Marton stood behind them, fingering his mustache, a gun pointed at the group.

Napoleon slumped dejectedly. He exchanged a disgruntled look with his partner before turning toward their nemesis. “Marton, I thought we’d put you away.”

Standing behind Marton were two Thrush musclemen, and the sheriff and his deputy. 

“What have you done with our vehicle?” Illya demanded belligerently. 

Marton cocked an eyebrow and looked to the sheriff, who appeared to just now be realizing the huge RV was not there.

“Damned if I know. It was here last I looked.” Sheriff Dupree scratched his head in befuddlement.

Marton shrugged eloquently. “No matter. It is the pieces to the puzzle that interest me. You did search them, did you not?”

“You never said nothin’ about searchin’ them. I brought them in just like you said.”

Letting out a sigh of disappointment, Marton turned to the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. “Good help is so hard to find.” His facial expression changed to one of determination. “You did get the airboats I requested?”

The sheriff appeared angered at Marton’s implied insult, but he evidently knew what side his bread was buttered on. “Yeah. They’re down this way,” he said, waving down the slope of the road to the water’s edge.

“Good. Alez, gentlemen,” Marton waved his gun for the agents to proceed him. His amiable expression left him once they got closer to the boats and Marton ordered, “Cuff them…together.”

Suzy was cowering to one side while Napoleon watched the deputy who seemed to be taking great satisfaction in cuffing the two of them together.

“At least let the girl go,” Illya requested. “She has nothing to do with any of this.”

“How very gallant of you, my Russian friend,” Marton said as he sidled closer to the wide-eyed blonde, his smile smug. He cupped her chin with one hand. “However, I do not think it would be in my best interest to do so.” The two henchmen snickered as Suzy shrunk away from the Frenchman. “Wouldn’t you like to come away with me, cheri? I’m sure we can think of something to do with you.”

While everyone’s attention was diverted, Napoleon saw his chance and yanked Illya onto one of the boats, hissing, “You can drive this thing, can’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Illya hissed back distractedly. “But what about Suzy?”

“She’ll be all right. Marton is a nothing if not a gentleman.”

It wasn’t easy, handcuffed as they were, but Illya quickly had the airboat up and running. The Thrush agents on the bank were startled, apparently realizing that the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were about to escape the minute the engine started. 

“You fools, they are about to get away!” Marton shouted angrily. Even in his haste to be after the escapees, Marton took the time to give a peck to Suzy’s cheek. “Perhaps another time?” he called, as he joined his men on the remaining boat, leaving a wide-eyed Suzy behind.

“Can you get this thing going any faster?” Napoleon asked, hanging on to the side of Illya’s seat and looking behind them as the men in the other boat got closer, shots ringing out.

“If you want to go faster, I suggest you try working this,” Illya snapped, struggling to zigzag in an effort to avoid being hit by the bullets. Unsuccessfully as it turned out, zigging when he should have zagged, one of the bullets found their mark. Illya grunted in pain as he clutched his arm, using the hand that was attached to Napoleon. Napoleon fell against him, causing the airboat they had appropriated to speed up recklessly, going off course and grazing a tree trunk sticking up in the water. The sudden jerk flung Illya from the boat, almost taking Napoleon with him. Napoleon only managed to stay in the boat by maintaining his grip on the metal strut of Illya’s seat. 

Clutching the metal tightly, Napoleon did his best to pull his, thankfully lighter, partner into the boat. Illya was offering no help, which had Napoleon worried. He just knew that any moment Marton and his men would be upon them. He fell backwards in an attempt to use the momentum to bring Illya upward and into the boat. 

A sudden scream caught his attention just as he managed to get a grip on Illya’s jacket and haul him over the side into the boat. Peeking over the side of the boat, he was surprised to see an enormous alligator heading his way, having apparently already tangled with the other boat, tossing the occupants into the water. A fellow alligator was already munching on one of the Thrushes while Marton and the remaining Thrush hastily swam to shore. 

Illya, it appeared, was unconscious and unable to provide any assistance. Napoleon scrambled into the vacant seat and did his best to figure out the controls. Luck was with him as he quickly managed to maneuver the boat away. Now that they were not in imminent danger of being caught, Napoleon eluded the giant creature and beached the boat on shore and took the time to check on his partner. Illya was still breathing. However, there was a bad bump on his forehead, a testament to the fact that he’d hit something, knocking himself out when he fell in the water. 

Napoleon sagged onto the damp earth. Handcuffed, no money, no vehicle. How were they going to get to New Orleans? There was nothing to do until Illya regained consciousness.

***

He opened his eyes to see the blue sky, the sun shining brightly in his eyes. He moved his arm to cover his eyes, only to have it jerked away. 

“Welcome back.” A man with dark hair, an unshaven face, and dark eyes smiled down at him.

He frowned. Where had he gone? He looked at his arm and the handcuff that linked him to the other man. Shouldn’t he be panicking? 

A car door shutting distracted him. 

“Yoohoo! Mr. Solo. Napoleon!” A Southern-accented voice shouted. Illya tilted his head back and saw a blonde-haired woman waving frantically. Napoleon? Was that his name or the other guy’s? He hoped it was the other guy’s.

“Suzy!” The other guy waved then reached out a handcuffed hand to pull him up. “Come on, Tovarisch. Time to go.”

Tovarisch? Wasn’t that Russian? He didn’t see where he had much choice, what with their being chained together. Either he was going to have to follow or get dragged along for his troubles.

The dark-hair man ran his uncuffed hand through his hair. “Suzy! Are you okay? How did you find us?”

“The sheriff and Tommy took off to rescue those terrible men. So I just followed the road ‘til I found you.”

“You hear that, Illya?” The dark-haired man smiled at him.

“Who’s Illya?”

The dark-haired man’s mouth gaped open.

“He’s joking, isn’t he?” the girl named Suzy asked.

The dark-haired man sighed and reached to pull up Illya’s eye-lid. “I don’t think so.”

He batted the man’s hand away. What gave him the right to touch him?

“Must be the bump on his head. Once we get to New Orleans, we’ll have a doctor look at him.”

“Why should I go anywhere with you?” Illya asked, backing away, but not getting far due to the cuff joining the two men together.

“Because, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, I happen to be senior agent by two years and I say so,” Napoleon growled and moved toward the car. 

Illya dug in his heels and wouldn’t move. He didn’t know this scruffy man and wasn’t about to go anywhere with him.

“You stubborn Russian,” Napoleon muttered under his breath. Illya wasn’t expecting the short upper cut that knocked him out as it sent him sprawling.

***

Napoleon strolled purposely through the hallway of the French Quarter’s office of the U.N.C.L.E., his mind still at the hospital where he’d left his partner in Suzy’s care. The receptionist had informed him that Waverly had taken up residence in the New Orleans’ communication center and required his attendance as soon as possible. That didn’t keep him from worrying about Illya, who, last he’d seen, was yet to regain consciousness.

The little moue of distaste made by the receptionist caused a slight detour as he took the time to shower off the smell of the bayou before facing his boss.

“How’s Illya?” were his first words as he entered, even before he finding a seat.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Mr. Solo,” Waverly greeted him; his frowned deepened as he looked up and actually saw his top agent. “Would it be asking too much for you to shave, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon rubbed his whiskered chin. In his haste, taking the time to shave had not seemed a top priority. 

“How is it you managed to lose our experimental vehicle and get your partner once again confined to a hospital?” Waverly demanded. 

Napoleon winced and he felt that the verbal attack unnecessary. He was quite aware of his responsibility and had always carried a little guilt about Illya, as well as all the innocents that over the course of years had become unwitting accomplices to their assignments. Illya was his partner and for some reason always bore the brunt of most assignments, his current condition from this one a case in point. As for the missing RV, something told Napoleon that it would turn up sooner or later. 

Mr. Waverly tone changed, no longer accusing. “I understand that Mr. Kuryakin is in capable hands. I’ve been assured I will be notified once he regains consciousness.” 

Napoleon sat down, adjusting his pant leg as he tried to get his thoughts and emotions under control. Finally he cleared his throat. “My apologies on the missing RV, sir, but seeing as you already know where it is, I don’t see why you’re worried.” He brought up his eyes up to meet his superior’s and smiled his most disarming smile.

Waverly looked up from the act of lighting his pipe, and a flicker of surprise shone in the old man’s eyes for just an instant. He took a few puffs and once it was going as he liked, asked. “Why do you say that, Mr. Solo?”

“Because I know all about the GPS unit that the RV is equipped with.” Napoleon delivered the coup de grace. 

Waverly’s brows lifted and his eyes widened as if surprised to find that his top agent knew anything about GPS technology. “Hmmm. I suppose Mr. Kuryakin explained it all to you.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop as if considering his next course of action, then reached for the intercom and flipped a switch. “Send in Miss…er…Chierle.”

Napoleon attention went to the door as it slid open and a young woman dressed in the usual yellow shirt with black skirt, the typical uniform favored by U.N.C.L.E. female employees, entered the room. In her hands she carried familiar metal box that contained all the quilt pieces they had collected along the way and had last been seen hidden inside the missing RV. Once she placed on the table he finally allowed himself the luxury of taking a closer look at her, the reddish-blonde hair and the freckled face.

“Freckles!” he burst out without thinking.

The young lady turned her grayish-blue eyes and gave Napoleon a disappointed look though whether she was put out by the fact that he recognized her or for the epithet concerning her most outstanding facial features he couldn’t quite tell. 

“Ah, thank you…er…, Donna.” Waverly waved the young lady to sit in one of the chairs that surrounded the round table, then turned his attention to Napoleon. “Miss Chierle is one of our newest agents in training, Mr. Solo. Section One gave her a simple assignment. It was to keep an eye on you and Mr. Kuryakin.”

“About this assignment, Mr. Waverly…” Napoleon started to ask. There was a lot about this assignment that he had questions about, plus they were to have traveled until they made it back to New York and he was somewhat embarrassed by their failure to complete it. He changed his mind, saying instead, “I’m sorry we were unable to finish the assignment to your satisfaction.”

Waverly started to wave the apology aside but before he could actually respond, an annoying buzzing sound emerged from the intercom. The interruption had Waverly hitting the switch, to stop the insistent sound.

Before Mr. Waverly could demand to know the reason for this disturbance, the sultry voice of the lovely receptionist sounded over the line. “Mr. Waverly, there is an excitable young woman on the line and she insists on speaking to Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon frowned in puzzlement and shrugged.

“Put her through, please.” Mr. Waverly ordered.

There was a click as the line was transferred, then sounds of breaking glass and cursing in a foreign language flowed into the communication center. 

“Napoleon? Ya’ll got to get over here fast.” There was a loud shriek and the crashing of wood. 

Napoleon sat forward in his chair, his forehead furrowed with concern. “Suzy? Is that you? What’s going on?”

“He’s gone crazy!” There were more sounds of crashing, and another loud shriek and then the line went dead.

Napoleon was out of his seat and through the door in a flash. Behind him he could hear Waverly demand, “Mr. Solo, get back here immediately!”

***

Napoleon hurried inside the hospital where he’d left Illya and Suzy and was instantly directed to the emergency room. Pushing open the double doors, he was surprised to find a number of nurses gathered together around the nurse’s station, blocking his view. Pushing his way through, he found a wide-eyed and terrified Suzy cowering against a wall. A piece of equipment flew out of a curtained area, scattering the nurses in all directions. This was followed by loud angry curses in a language that Napoleon recognized as Russian.

“What’s going on?” Napoleon asked Suzy as he ducked.

“Ah don’t rightly know,” Suzy sounded highly excitable as she scurried closer to Napoleon. “He just went crazy. They said they were gonna call the police, so I called you. Ah didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” Napoleon assured her as he carefully peeked around the curtained enclosure. Illya, partially dressed in a hospital gown with blood dripping from his wound, was holding at least two doctors and an orderly at bay.

“Look here, Mr. Kuryakin, we must check you out,” one of the doctors insisted during one of the few breaks in the action.

While Illya was distracted, Napoleon slipped into the room and got a gentle choke hold on his partner, doing his best to be careful of Illya’s injury.

“Calm down, Tovarisch. Let the nice men take care of you,” Napoleon said softly into Illya’s ear.

“Napoleon! How could you?” Illya stopped struggling and let out a strangled cry as he clawed at the arm around his throat with his one good hand. “First you hit me. Then you leave me here!” 

“Sorry, but you left me no choice.” Napoleon relaxed his grip and let him loose as he realized that Illya had called him by name. “Illya? Is it you?”

Illya rubbed his throat. “Of course. Who else? Where are we?”

Napoleon pushed him to sit on the examining table. “It’s a long story. Tell you what…you let the doctors take care of that arm and I’ll spring you.”

Illya looked at his arm in surprise, while the doctors warily returned to finish examining and patching him up. Illya looked over their shoulders at Suzy who stood in the doorway her mouth open in wonder. “What’s she doing here?”

“I’ll explain later,” Napoleon repeated as he watched the doctors cautiously work from a distance. When they were done, he handed Illya what was left of his clothing. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Hey, who’s going to pay for all this damage?” One of the doctors waved his arm at the mess scattered around. 

Napoleon grimaced as he looked at the wreckage and pulled out a card. “Our U.N.C.L.E. will be in touch.”

Illya swiftly pulled on his pants, slipped into the bloodstained shirt and was halfway out the door, leaving Napoleon to gather Suzy. They made it to the swinging doors, stepping to one side to let two policemen rush in. No sooner had they passed the group when, with Illya in the lead, they made their escape.

***

Mr. Waverly was not happy. He glared at the two agents who sat across from him. Illya had stopped to shower and find fresh clothing and while Illya was cleaning up, Napoleon had explained about the hospital and the reason why Illya had been left there. Now he was glaring at the young girl who had been tailing them from the beginning. Knowing she was on their side did not help.

***

They had just spent the past hour with Mr. Waverly being debriefed. Napoleon, in his usual manner, had managed to elicit as much information as he gave. He’d been pleased to learn that Mr. Waverly had offered Suzy a job with U.N.C.L.E., even more so when he found out that it was not with the New York office. 

The more important information, and this from Waverly himself, was that another team, unbeknownst to the two agents, had been traversing the country from the other end, collecting quilt pieces as well. That was why there were more quilt pieces than what Napoleon and Illya had gathered on the table in front of them. 

Napoleon sat, rubbing his whiskered chin, with a mystifying smile on his face. His eyes were glazed over as if his mind were far away. 

At the moment, a team of experts was unsuccessfully trying to arrange the pieces in some sort of sequence that made sense.

“Our first thought was to use you both as decoys. You, Mr. Solo, had just returned from an assignment and had no knowledge that could be forced from you. The less you knew the better,” was Waverly’s reasoning.

Napoleon stewed on that one. He was reminded of two previous assignments, one where they had supposedly been taking a Thrush official to Washington, D.C., while Waverly made his way with a decoy, only to find out they had been the ones escorting the decoy.

Then there had been the time when he’d returned from vacation and Waverly had used him as a decoy to keep Thrush away from a mind-reading machine. Victor Marton had been involved in that mission as well. Regrettably of Victor Marton there was no sign, even less of the man who had ended up as lunch for the alligator.

“Okay, I understand that, but why the silent treatment,” Napoleon demanded to know. As far as he could see, there was no reason for it.

Waverly shrugged, an unusual act for him. “You will be retiring from the field shortly, Mr. Solo. The RV was ready for testing and I thought this might be a leisurely, yet exciting, last assignment for the two of you.” Mr. Waverly looked slightly embarrassed at having to admit that part of his motivation was personal. 

“Miss…er…Chierle was sent along to make sure everything went smoothly. She graduated from Survival School with top marks and I thought a simple tailing exercise, if you will, would be a perfect first assignment. If things worked out, she would be partnered with Mr. Kuryakin.”

Napoleon glanced over to the corner of the room, behind and outside Waverly’s range of vision, where Illya had taken up residence and did his best to keep his doubt about that off his face. One look at his partner’s blank expression and the crossed arms, he knew he wasn’t alone in his thinking. At least Illya wasn’t glaring at the poor girl anymore.

Miss Chierle was less adept at hiding her feelings than his partner and Napoleon had the impression she was not pleased, which he could not understand. Teaming up with U.N.C.L.E.’s top agent would be a feather in her cap. Napoleon had a gut feeling that this would not be a match made in heaven.

Four boring hours later the experts had made little to no progress.

“Bah!” Waverly threw up his hands.

“Perhaps if you explain what you are supposed to learn from these pieces?” Illya asked.

One of the experts pushed his glasses further up on his nose. “Civilian nuclear power is just beginning to come into play. For a large segment of the population this means that in twenty years or less, we can open facilities using new advanced and innovated fuel cycles.”

“Could someone phrase that into English,” Waverly requested.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “What he’s saying, Sir, is the quilt contains the formula for a new synthetic fuel.”

Everyone stared open-mouthed at Napoleon, except Illya, who smirked.

“Well, I’m not just another pretty face,” Napoleon responded smugly.

“I don’t understand,” another expert said. “We’ve tried every configuration and nothing makes sense.”

During all this time, Napoleon’s eyes had wandered over to their newest associate and he noticed something strange. Now he let out a sigh and with great deliberation got out of his chair to stand behind Chierle. With an apologetic murmur, he reached down the front of her blouse and pulled off her somewhat skimpy strapless bra to everyone’s shock. “Cheap, cheap,” he muttered. A twist here, a twist there and he unfolded the bra’s padding, which, as it turned out, were two quilt pieces. 

Pandemonium reigned, as Mr. Waverly got on the intercom and called in security. Pressing down on Miss Chierle’s shoulders with one hand to keep her in place, Napoleon handed over to Illya the final pieces of the quilt with the other. Illya gave a quick look at the two pieces and to the utter astonishment of the experts he swiftly rearranged the rest to fit them in perfectly. A sigh of relief went around the room.

“How did you know?” Waverly demanded to know as his supposedly perfect agent cowered in her chair.

Napoleon shrugged. “Nice act, Girlie.” He supposed he could have explained that Miss Chierle’s patting of her chest every once in while had seemed suspicious. When she crossed her arms, hugging her chest, an unusual idea suggested itself to him. While it was true that he’d only seen her at a distance a couple of times, it appeared to him that her chest measurements were slightly larger than he remembered and Napoleon was an expert on that sort of thing. Instead, he offered, “Well, it occurred to me that Thrush had an awfully easy time tracking us. Who better to tell them where we were then the one person on our tail?”

“I’d be more interested in knowing who was behind this.” Illya leaned over Chierle and spoke menacingly in her ear.

Chierle hugged herself tighter before saying bravely, “You don’t scare me.”

Illya scowled, not raising his head. His eyes looked through his bangs at his partner, silently asking what they should do next. 

In the meantime, Waverly was busy on the intercom ordering additional security to take charge of the miscreant. 

“How do you know there is someone else involved?” Napoleon asked in a low tone.

“Look at her. Do you honestly think she’s smart enough to have thought this up on her own?”

Napoleon did as Illya asked. She looked so innocent, but that could be deceptive. 

Miss Chierle sat, her head lowered, her chin pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly round her body. It was obvious she had no intention of talking. She was, however, listening. Napoleon could have sworn she brightened as Waverly made arrangements for her to be escorted to New York.

Napoleon tilted his head, biting his lower lip as he came up with a strategy. It appeared to him that Chierle wanted very much to go back to New York. That meant whoever her confederate was, was also in New York.

Illya backed away, moving around the table to where he could see her face. A look of disgust crossed Illya’s face as Napoleon slid into the chair next to her and gently lifted her chin so she was looking at him. 

“Miss Chierle…Donna…,” he said softly.

Her eyes took on a dreamy look. It was obvious that the Solo magic was working.

“It’s very important that we know who masterminded this little scheme,” Napoleon said gently, his thumb tenderly moving back and forth over her lower lip.

She tried to move her chin away, but Napoleon’s grip remained firm. His head moved closer, his lips coming closer to hers. “Donna?” he whispered sultrily, his eyes focused on her lips that parted slightly, waiting to be kissed. She really did have lovely lips. His eyes rose to search hers, keeping her attention on him, as he strove to not show his irritation at the gagging noise behind him. 

“Please?” Napoleon’s lips lightly touched hers. She giggled as his whiskers brushed against her skin. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “I know this wasn’t your idea.” 

She shook her head, her eyes hypnotized by his.

“You do want to tell me who’s using you, don’t you?”

She shook her head more emphatically. Napoleon was disappointed but didn’t show it. “What if…” Napoleon leaned forward and whispered into her ear. He sat back in his chair and watched her face. Her eyes lit up, she ran her tongue over her lips in anticipation and nodded her head.

“Who?”

She leaned forward and whispered a name in his ear, then leaned back, smiling smugly.

“No!” Napoleon’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped unattractively in shock. 

Illya nudged him from behind.

“Mr. Solo, whom did she name?” Mr. Waverly requested leaning forward in his chair.

Napoleon got out of his chair and went to stand next to his partner, staring down at Chierle in shock. Illya nudged him again.

“Hemmingway?” Napoleon expounded, not believing that he’d heard her right.

Illya glanced at their chief. Napoleon’s announcement had Waverly falling back in his chair, his face ashen with shock.

“She’s lying, of course,” Illya said matter-of-factly.

“You think so?” Napoleon asked hopefully. He looked at Chierle again. She looked so…so…innocent. But Hemmingway? Alexander Waverly’s brother-in-law? Impossible!

Waverly’s face had changed to beet red. Someone was going to have to have to investigate this outrageous charge.

“Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon knew what Waverly was going to order and did a little sidestepping. “I’ll get someone on it right away, sir.” 

Waverly nodded as the security force entered and moved toward Chierle. She looked each man over in turn, not believing what was happening. In a state of shock she turned her wide-eyed gaze onto Napoleon. “You promised!”

Lifting his shoulders upward in a shrug, Napoleon answered truthfully. “What can I say? I lied.” Elbowing Illya, Napoleon canted his head toward the doorway, wanting to get away before Waverly changed his mind. 

As they walked down the hallway, Napoleon thought about his retirement from the field and considered commandeering the RV for a trip to Yellowstone Park and maybe even the Grand Canyon. He was sure Illya would enjoy that. If he worked it out right, they could be incommunicado long enough for Illya to be retired from the field as well. Their trip around the country had proved one thing - although they might bicker, the two together could accomplish anything. It was a friendship as much as a partnership and that wasn’t something he was ready to give up.

“You know we do work well together. Do you suppose Waverly could be talked into ignoring the mandatory age rule?” Illya asked.

“I doubt it,” Napoleon said absently.

“Shame about Hemmingway.” Illya sighed. “Well, it just goes to show. You can’t trust anyone.”


End file.
